


Hunter's Spark

by WandersUnderStarlight



Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Families of Choice, M/M, Secret Identity, fall of praxus
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-07
Updated: 2020-10-13
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:42:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 25,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24064519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WandersUnderStarlight/pseuds/WandersUnderStarlight
Summary: Jazz disobeys orders to abandon the ruins of Praxus and runs into one of the Senate's dirty secrets.
Relationships: Chromia/Ironhide, Inferno/Red Alert, Jazz/Prowl
Comments: 261
Kudos: 517





	1. A Single Encounter

Jazz carefully picked through the burned out buildings and debris of the once-shining city of Praxus. He’d been part of the rescue efforts as soon as the Autobots had heard about the destruction. They had searched for cycles. 

The Senate had declared the city lost, much to the rescue teams’ dismay and consternation. How could those bots know anything in their lofty towers of Iacon? His team had been called back, but Jazz, stubborn and angry, had refused to leave and continued searching for survivors. Any survivors.

And finally, finally… he found one.

In a half collapsed building that had once been a convenience store he followed the sounds of scrabbling. It led him to a small grey and red youngling hiding under a counter. The poor little thing was dirty, scuffed and in silent shock. It took half a joor of coaxing, extending his field soothingly and tempting him with fuel to get the youngling to trust him enough to approach him.

The little mechling eventually crawled to him and safely into his arms.

“I’ve got ya now, lil’ one.” Jazz breathed out in relief.

In response, the youngling magnetized himself to Jazz’s plating (a testament to just how young he was) and buried his face into Jazz’s neck cables. His miniature doorwings were laid down flat on his back like an insecticon beetle’s.

Now Jazz just had to get them out of the city.

He reactivated his comm, which he’d turned off when he’d left the rescue team to go off on his own.

:Jazz to Redshift.:

His commander answered far more quickly than he was expecting. :Jazz! Thank Primus. I’m too relieved to be mad at you right now! Where the pit are you?:

:Redshift, I found a survivor. It’s a younglin’.:

:Oh frag, you’re still in Praxus. Jazz you have to get out of there! Our Aerials have reported Decepticon activity. They have patrols moving in now that the Senate declared the city lost.:

Jazz snarled over the comm, but kept his field comforting for the mechling cradled in his arms. He could be angry at Sentinel Prime and his sycophantic Senate later. Right now he needed to concentrate on getting himself and his new charge out of the city.

:That’s not all.: Redshift said quickly. :I’m not supposed to tell this to anybot, but damnit you’re one of my best agents and I don’t want you and that youngling to deactivate. The Senate is sending Hunters into Praxus to take out any Decpticons they come across.:

Liquid nitrogen slid through Jazz’s lines.

:Frag.:

Hunters were the Senate’s black ops. Their pet assassins, highly trained to take care of the Senate’s problems. Most Cybertronians thought of them as stories made up to scare younglings and conspiracy theorists. But members of the Autobots spec ops knew they existed and hated working with them. They were single-processored in their pursuit of orders. They left no witnesses and did not care about collateral damage.

Jazz and the youngling were more likely to be deactivated by a Hunter than a Decepticon. But with that thought, a spark of determination ignited in Jazz’s tanks.

:I’m going to get him out of here, Redshift. I will see you when we get to Iacon.:

Redshift was silent for a long moment. :If anybot can do it, it’s you, Jazz. Good luck.:

:Thanks, boss.:

“Hey sweetling,” Jazz whispered gently, getting the youngling to look at him, “I’m gonna get ya outta ‘ere, okay? An’ it might get scary. But I want ya t’ know tha’ I gonna take care o’ ya, alright?”

The youngling nodded. He was still silent. Jazz didn’t know if it was some sort of physical damage to his vocalizer, psychological trauma or both, but right at the moment it was to both of their advantages.

“We’re gonna ‘ave t’ be sneaky t’ get outta ‘ere. So we both need t’ be as quiet as possible. Ya’re doin’ a great job already, bu’ if ya need t’ get my attention all ya gotta do is tap on my platin’ okay? Ya understand? ‘Ow ‘bout one tap for yes an’ two taps for no.”

One of the youngling’s digits immediately tapped on Jazz’s shoulder once.

Jazz smiled proudly. “Good mechling.”

The youngling managed a small smile for a couple of kliks.

Jazz got up, moving stealthily towards the door of the store. “Hold tight t’ me.” he murmured before falling silent and activating his stealth mods.

_Tap._

Jazz used the map that he’d been compiling during his search through the city to find the fastest route to the nearest transport station. There was no guarantee that it would have any working planetary ships, but it was going to be their best bet of making it quickly out of the city. 

Jazz crept along crumbling walls, sticking to the shadows. Not twenty breems later he froze as a distinctly Decepticon patrol passed by the alley he was sneaking through. The youngling made no sound, but he clung tighter to Jazz, hiding his faceplates into Jazz’s neck, terror leaking out of his EMF. Jazz stroked the youngling’s helm hoping to offer him at least a modicum of comfort.

Going was slow after that. It felt like it took joors to move from one street to the next, constantly freezing at any sound. Sometimes it was nothing. But sometimes it was another patrol.

It was the worst game of Hide and Seek Jazz had ever had the misfortune of being a part of.

It was sheer dumb luck that Jazz saw the Hunter first.

He’d ducked back into a deep, darkened alcove to hide from another group of passing Decepticons. Holding still and silent as the bots passed by, unaware of his presence. He was waiting to move until the sounds of their talking faded. He was _so close_ to the transport station. It was just _one_ street away. And then with some luck he could find a ship to get them out of this pit.

And then he saw the mech prowling after the patrol like a predator stalking its prey. The mech was painted in a dull grey that imitated the look of deactivation. Sensor panels on his back that might have once blended in with the inhabitants of the destroyed city were alert and vigilant. His helm was covered by a blast mask that obscured all of his facial features, black glass covered the place where his optics would be. It was the “uniform” of a Hunter.

And though Jazz had his stealth mods going, they couldn’t cover both him and the youngling in his arms perfectly.

The Hunter paused in his pursuit of the patrol. His helm slowly turned towards their hiding place.

It was like a horror holovid come to life.

Jazz’s combat protocols spun up from pending to fully online.

He reached down to the ground next to where he was crouching. His servo closed around a chunk of metal debris. He could still hear the Decepticons speaking, unawares.

“Turn off yar optics, lil’ one.” Jazz whispered, visor locked on the mech that looked like deactivation.

The Hunter took one step.

Jazz tossed the piece of metal out into the street. It clattered and crashed.

He heard the Decepticons make exclamations of bemusement. And then a shout of discovery as they actually caught sight of the mech that, unbeknownst to them, had been hunting them.

The Hunter stared at Jazz’s hiding spot for a klik more, even as blaster fire hit the ground near him, and then he moved with a deadly grace to intercept the attacking patrol.

Somebot screamed.

And Jazz ran.

He darted and bobbed and weaved. He left behind the sounds of deactivation. Down the ruined street he sprinted with his precious cargo. His optical center was cycled to its widest setting, looking for every threat. 

Nearly all of the transport station had been burned down and many of the transports themselves were destroyed, but there was a small lot to the side with the tiny personal ships that was still intact. 

Jazz picked the closest ship and hacked his way in. Inelegant, but efficient. He got into the pilot’s seat, youngling still held securely in his arms.

He murmured, “Okay, lil’ one. Ya can turn yar optics back on. We’re gettin’ outta ‘ere.”

Jazz started up the engine. He quickly ran through the preflight checks with a cursory impatience and then lifted off. He set the ship on a course to Iacon.

The youngling took a sudden invent of air, fear lashing through his field.

_Taptaptaptap!_

Jazz turned sharply in his seat, pistol drawn from subspace and pointed at the chestplates of the Hunter who’d somehow gotten aboard the cruiser with them. That meant he’d taken out the Decepticon patrol in a distressingly short amount of time. Jazz’s other arm tightened around the bundle of frightened youngling.

They stared at each other for a few silent kliks.

“Interesting. You are not supposed to be here.” The Hunter said with the barest lilt of amusement in his voice. “It seems as though somebot lied to me.”

Jazz’s processor raced, he knew from experience that one could redirect a Hunter by reminding them of their mission. He spoke quickly hoping to distract the Hunter, “There are four more Decepticon patrols in the area.”

The Hunter’s helm tilted, seemingly considering the words. “Hmmm…”

Jazz tried again. “I need to get the youngling to safety. There are too many Decepticons in the city.”

“That is true.” The Hunter agreed. “Those Seekers are going to give us trouble.”

Jazz risked a glance out of the cockpit window and bit off a curse. There were two trines incoming. He didn’t think this little pleasure cruiser had any weapons.

His attention jerked back to the Hunter when he moved towards them. The Hunter silently reached out. Brushed first the mechling’s cheek with the back of his digits and then Jazz’s, both motions causing the twitchy ops mech to abort violent reactions.

“Whatever happens, keep flying.” The Hunter said and then he walked to the door of the cruiser.

The proximity alert blaring pulled Jazz from his confusion. He cursed again, reluctantly putting away his pistol, and focused on not letting the Seekers blast them out of the sky.

More alarms sounded. The Hunter had opened the door to the outside.

Jazz had no time to wonder why.

The Seekers closed in.

Jazz chanced a look back at the Hunter just in time to see him unsubspace two swords and launch himself out of the open door onto the frame of one of the aggressive Seekers, sinking the swords deep into their wings as they screeched.

Jazz focused back on piloting, pushing the shock out of his processor to think about later when he and the youngling weren’t in mortal danger.

The mechling had buried his face back into Jazz’s neckcables, little arms still magnetized and clinging tightly to him. 

Jazz pushed the cruiser to its limit, dodging shots and flybys from the Seekers. The Hunter was wreaking havoc amongst them, attacking them with the help of a jet pack that Jazz had not realized was on his frame.

The cruiser pulled away from the conflict as the Seekers, one-by-one, fell from the sky.

Jazz didn’t stop until they’d reached the safety of Iacon.


	2. Family Of Choice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jazz adopts Blue... or is it the other way around?

“This is a breach of protocol! Not to mention security! That youngling should be nowhere near Special Operations.” The Director of Security at Iacon’s Gamma Base was a mech named Sharptone. He let far too many personal opinions influence his policies, at least that was Redshift’s professional opinion.

Redshift gave no indication that she was at all affected by the mech yelling in her face. “That youngling,” she said calmly, “needs my agent right now. It’s called ‘Traumatic Imprinting’. If you bothered to check with the medic who is in charge of his case, you would know that. The moment you try to separate them, I’ll have you locked in the brig so fast your helm will spin.”

The mech spluttered and blustered while Redshift looked on unimpressed. “The youngling should be living with Neutrals off base!”

“Come with me.” She said interrupting him unexpectedly, standing up from her desk. “You can tell him that yourself.”

Nonplussed, he followed her deeper into the Spec Ops domain. A corridor of offices, bunks, training rooms and meeting rooms, the biggest of which had been turned into a common area.

They found Jazz going over a map of some facility with Mirage and Bumblebee in one of the meeting rooms. Redshift made a mental note of the sneer the Security Director sent to the former Towers mech. That type of prejudice was detrimental. Perhaps it was time for Redshift to drop a word to Ultra Magnus to have the mech replaced.

She also made another mental note to see about placing the three ops agents on more missions together. They worked very well as a team.

The mechling, who’d introduced himself as Bluestreak once he had the ability to speak again, was snoozing contentedly, magnetized to Jazz’s back like a baby nyctopossum. His tiny doorwings twitched and fluttered in his recharge.

He woke at the shift in Jazz’s field when the newcomers entered the room, little optics blinking on to stare over the Polyhexian’s shoulder at Redshift (who he recognized) and the unknown mech. His armor fluffed up uneasily.

The Security Director didn’t need to know that practically the entire Spec Ops division had pseudo adopted Bluestreak already. And they had begun teaching him. How to be stealthy; how to crawl, unnoticed, through vents; and how to conceal things in the gaps of his outer armor.

“How’s it hangin’, boss?” Jazz greeted easily. He sent a calm, confident pulse through his field to soothe Bluestreak’s anxiety.

“Security Director Sharptone wanted to speak to Bluestreak.” Redshift said.

From the slight scowl he sent her, that wasn’t exactly what he wanted, but he turned to Bluestreak, nontheless, faceplates transforming into an overly sweet smile. It looked slightly wrong and forced.

“Hello there, sport. I’d like to start taking you to meet new creators to adopt you.”

“No!” Bluestreak sounded a little panicked, he ducked behind Jazz’s shoulder pauldron. “Please don’t make me leave!”

The three ops agents around the table along with Redshift sent Sharptone matching glares. 

Jazz murmured comfortingly. “Ain’t nobot gonna make ya leave, lil’ one, I promise.”

Sharptone tried a different tactic when Bluestreak peeked back over Jazz’s shoulder.

“Wouldn’t you like to go live with a nice couple off base?”

“Oh, no thank you.” Bluestreak said.

Sharptone looked flummoxed. “Why not?”

“Because I want to stay with Jazz. I like him and he keeps me safe.”

“Aww, I like ya too, Blue.” Jazz said leaning his helm back to rest gently against the youngling’s own in a soft nuzzle.

Defeated for the moment, Sharptone made his excuses and left. 

The Ops mechs knew he wasn’t done, just formulating a new plan. That was fine. If there was something Ops mechs were exceedingly good at, it was adapting to enemy plans.

Sharptone’s “plan”, it turned out, was to get every Praxian in the vicinity to agree to meet Bluestreak. He probably hoped that Bluestreak would latch onto one of his frame-kin. Or maybe he was trying to get one of the adult Praxians to demand that the youngling come live with them rather than Jazz and the Ops mechs.

It didn’t work.

Undeniably, his elder frame-kin were happy to see Bluestreak alive and well, but they were also few in number. And Autobots.

Smokescreen, as a psychiatrist, knew better than to separate the youngling from his sense of security (aka: Jazz). Skids was kind, but awkward around the mechling, not really sure how to interact with him. Nightbeat was excited to meet Bluestreak, but too young himself to take care of a youngling and as a normal soldier, he lived in the barracks. Not a good place for a youngling to live.

So, seeing Sharptone enter the Spec Ops common area followed by a Praxian was an expected sight by now. This Praxian was black and white with accents of red highlighting his frame. He moved with a purposeful gait and economy of motion.

Jazz took this in with a single glance before turning his attention back to Bluestreak who was reading a datapad full of stories out loud while sitting in his lap.

“Looks like ya ‘ave ‘nother visitor,” Jazz said softly.

Bluestreak looked up and unexpectedly froze. He fell silent. His EMF fluctuated with shock.

“Wha’s wrong lil’ one?” Jazz murmured, readying himself to get out of the room with Bluestreak, if necessary. He covertly signaled to Bumblebee to intercept the Security Director and unknown Praxian and stall them.

“It’s the deactivated mech.” Bluestreak whispered, abandoning the datapad and curling into Jazz’s arms. His voice lowered even more. “The one from Praxus.” (That was how Bluestreak referred to the Hunter they’d had an encounter with. After a debrief with Redshift, she’d expressly told Jazz not to tell anybot about their interaction with the mech. It was safer if they kept it as their little secret.)

Jazz snuck another look at the black and white mech. “Wha’ makes ya say tha’, Blue?” he whispered back.

“He has the same sensor panels.”

Now, to Jazz’s optics, sensor panels were sensor panels. But… Jazz wasn’t Praxian. Could they identify each other by sensor panels alone? It was possible. Or they could just have been similar enough that Bluestreak was remembering trauma.

Either way, Jazz decided to make his excuses and get Blue out of there.

Of course, Sharptone couldn’t just let him get out of the door. Bumblebee was rudely ignored as Sharptone intercepted them.

Jazz tried to brush him off. “Blue’s ‘aving a bit o’ a rough day an’ ‘e ain’t up fo’ one o’ yar ‘playdates’... Sir.” He tacked on belatedly.

Sharptone glowered at Jazz. The adult Praxian seemed impassive, but he took in how Bluestreak hid his face against Jazz’s neck and frowned. He turned to the Security Director.

“How many bots have you ‘introduced’ to the youngling?” He asked pointedly.

Sharptone turned to the Praxian with what he probably thought was an ingratiating smile, but on his faceplates just looked oily and insincere.

“Now Commander Prowl, I’m just trying to help the youngling meet his frame-kin.”

“Interesting,” the mech said flatly, “so you lied to me.”

Whatever Sharptone said in response was lost to Jazz as his processor caught on the Praxian’s words. He may not have the ability to tell Praxian’s apart by their doorwings, but he had some of the best audials in the Autobot army and he could recognize individual bots by the harmonics of their vocalizers. Those words. Said _that_ way and in _that_ cadence...

Bluestreak had been right. It was _him_. The Hunter.

Jazz tuned back into their conversation as he began to slowly, stealthily, edge around them towards the door.

The Commander was speaking, “It would be more beneficial for young Bluestreak to meet mechlings his own age. The twins that were rescued from Kaon, perhaps.”

“The _Terror Twins_?” Sharptone didn’t bother to hide the disdain in his voice.

“The mechling refugees.” the Commander corrected crisply.

That made Jazz pause for a klik. He’d heard rumors about other younglings at one of the Iaconi bases that had been rescued from the gladiator pits of Kaon. One of the frontliners and his mate had been the only ones stubborn enough to adopt them. Or so the rumors went.

The Praxian turned steel-blue optics to look at Jazz and Bluestreak, halting the Polyhexian’s subtle escape. Jazz just stopped himself from pulling a knife. Perhaps it was something in his posture or how his EMF was pulled in tight, but the Praxian’s optics sharpened. Intelligent and calculating.

There was a charged, fleeting moment that passed between them.

Then it passed as the Praxian lowered his doorwings fractionally. “I could arrange a time with Ironhide and Chromia for Bluestreak to meet them, if he’d like that.”

Jazz wanted to refuse outright, get Blue away from the dangerous mech. But… some playmates close to Blue’s age would be good for him, and right now they were in the safest place in the base, surrounded by other Ops mechs who would literally fight to deactivation for the little youngling.

He ran a soothing servo down Bluestreak’s back and murmured, “Would ya like tha’, Blue? Some mechling’s yar own age t’ play with?”

The youngling hesitated and then nodded. His silence was a testament to how stressed he was. With the other Ops mechs, he had become something of a chatterbox.

Commander Prowl had, apparently, caught Bluestreak’s agreement and nodded himself. “I will see to it.”

He gave Jazz one more long, penetrating stare, ignoring the background noise of Sharptone’s disagreement.

“It’ll ‘ave t’ be ‘ere. Blue’s still uncomfortable with travelin’. Ya can message me with possible dates an’ times.” Jazz heard himself say. He quickly sent a short databurst with one of his comm frequencies to the elder Praxian. “Now if ya’ll excuse us, we gotta go.” And then without waiting for acknowledgement he slipped out of the door with Bluestreak.


	3. New Friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bluestreak makes new friends and Jazz makes a new... friend?

Commander Prowl was good on his word and a few cycles later he was able to put Jazz in contact with General Ironhide to arrange a playdate with his adopted younglings. He’d sounded pleased to bring his mechlings to the Gamma Base to meet Bluestreak.

“It’ll do ‘em good to meet another youngling their age.” He’d said.

Bluestreak seemed excited, but also nervous.

The cycle they were to arrive, Jazz had Mirage and Bumblebee join him and Bluestreak in the common area. Having them near would help Blue feel more calm.

They heard their visitors coming long before they saw them.

Redshift escorted the big, red mech and two younglings into the room and Jazz had to stop himself from bursting out laughing.

The twins (Ironhide had told him their names were Sideswipe and Sunstreaker) were an upgrade ahead of Bluestreak and had already lost the ability to magnetize themselves to their favorite adults, but they apparently made up for it by just hanging onto the legs of their adoptive parents or whoever else they liked. Ironhide moved along, seemingly with no problem, lugging around the two mechlings (yellow and red) attached to his leg struts.

General Ironhide was obviously a warrior with well-worn, battle scarred armor, but he showed a warmth to his mechlings that one might not expect from a battle hardened soldier.

“Now behave y’ lil’ scraplets.” He said genially.

“I’m not a scraplet!” the yellow one asserted looking offended by even the mere suggestion.

“I am!” the red one said gleefully, playfully pretending to gnaw on Ironhide’s plating.

“A’ight then, off with ya. Yer new lil’ friend is waitin’ for ya.”

The red one spotted Bluestreak standing next to Jazz in the middle of the room. With a whoop he let go of Ironhide’s leg and bounded over.

Spooked by the sudden movement and attention, Bluestreak used his little mags to scamper up Jazz’s frame like a startled neon-lizard up a tree.

“Don’t scare him, ya firecracker.” Ironhide called out.

The red mechling stopped at Jazz’s pedes and looked up at his new playmate, who was now perched up on Jazz’s hood, clinging to the Polyhexian’s helm, much to Jazz’s amusement. “Wow, you’re fast! Hey, what’s your name?”

The yellow one approached more slowly. “I like your wings. I want to draw them.”

Bluestreak cycled his optics. “Thank you? I, um, I’m Bluestreak. You’re fast too. I… I like your helm vents.” The first part was directed at the red twin and the second at the yellow.

“I’m Sideswipe! And this is Sunstreaker. Hey, you want to play tag?” Sideswipe asked hopefully.

“You want to come down?” Sunstreaker asked, tilting his helm inquiringly.

“...Okay.” Blue said looking down at the floor, faceplates scrunching in contemplation of the best way to get back down.

“‘Ere, Blue,” Jazz chuckled. He gently grabbed the mechling and set him on the floor.

“So, tag?” Sideswipe said eagerly.

“And then coloring!” Sunstreaker butted in. He pulled out blank sheets of flimsy and colored pencils.

“That sounds like fun.” Blue said shyly. “And then do you want to have some oil cake? Mirage just made one, he always makes the best treats.” He nodded over at the blue and white ex-noble with a small smile which Mirage returned.

“We get to have cake too!?” Sideswipe exclaimed. “Best cycle ever!”

And with that, it seemed as if their friendship was cemented.

Jazz sat himself in a comfortable chair next to Ironhide and watched the younglings play. The twins had been rescued nearly half a vorn ago, before Kaon had closed and barricaded their borders. Jazz had snuck a peek at their medical files and was impressed by how much progress they’d made from the frightened, half-feral bitlets they’d been to the laughing mechlings they were now. He’d have to see about taking Bluestreak to the shrink they’d seen.

Eventually, Bumblebee was pulled into their games, the twins mistaking him for an older youngling rather than a minibot, but he didn’t correct them and joined in to Bluestreak’s delight.

And everybot enjoyed Mirage’s oilcake, much to his smug satisfaction.

All in all, it was a great success.

Jazz asked Ironhide to give a message to Commander Prowl thanking him for his insight and networking.

Jazz was grateful, but he was still wary of the mech that he was _almost certain_ was an assassin for the Senate. He’d told nobot of his suspicions, not even Redshift and he’d made Bluestreak promise not to tell anybot as well. After all, they were dangerous assumptions to have.

Nobot was supposed to know the Hunters existed, let alone who they were. Spec Ops was in an interesting position of knowledge when it came to their existence, but were sworn to secrecy in no uncertain terms by Sentinel Prime, himself. The Hunters were assets, loyal to the Prime and his Senate, that were available for use by the Autobot Special Operations in dire circumstances. But they came at the price of silence paid for with mech-blood.

Truthfully, Jazz hadn’t really allowed himself to think about who the Hunters might be under their grey paint and face masks. It was safer that way. It was only because Bluestreak had drawn attention to the Commander that Jazz had been hyper-vigilant enough to pick up on what his audials had picked up on. Only because the Hunter, who was supposed to leave no survivors in his wake, had spared them for some reason.

Jazz could only hope it was because he had some sort of a spark under his plating.

The less he had to personally interact with _that_ mech, the better.

A couple of decacycles and two playdates later, Bluestreak was really starting to blossom and come into his own. He was comfortable enough that Redshift was considering sending Jazz out on a few low risk missions. Bluestreak would be left with Mirage or Bee while Jazz was absent, of course. They were his favorites after Jazz.

Jazz hummed to himself as he got onto the lift. He was headed back from a shopping trip in Iacon with some goodies for Blue. It was the very first test to see how Bluestreak handled him being gone for a joor or two. Gauging the mechling’s reaction to a small time of separation. 

A white servo stopped the door just as it was about to close and a mech Jazz was not expecting to see entered the lift after him.

“Commander Prowl.” Jazz said in surprise. “Wha’ brings ya t’ Gamma Base?”

The mech smiled blandly and pushed a button for a floor above where Jazz was headed. “A transfer. I thought I would get my affects moved in before the official announcement next cycle.”

“I see.” Jazz said, disquiet filling his spark.

The lift ascended two floors in silence.

Prowl sighed. “I suppose I must start this conversation.” He quickly pushed the emergency stop.

“Wha’ th’ frag mech?!” Jazz exclaimed as the lift halted abruptly.

The Commander moved like quicksilver, reaching for Jazz. Between one vent and the next, Jazz had slid a vibro-blade out from under his vambrace and flipped it into his sevo. The flurry of motion stopped as quickly as it had started.

They stood in the center of the lift. The back of Prowl’s digits rested gently on Jazz’s cheekridge, claws had transformed out of his digit tips (Jazz hadn’t noticed those the first time). Jazz had his arm raised in a defensive position, blade held underhanded and just a micron away from the lines on Prowl’s wrist.

The Praxian looked amused. “That’s the second time you’ve pulled a weapon on me.”

“Tha’s the second time ya’ve invaded my personal space.” Jazz shot back.

A triumphant light entered Prowl’s optics. “So you do know. I suspected as such.”

Jazz didn’t bother denying it. The both knew what Prowl was talking about. 

“Wha’d’ya want?” Jazz growled.

Prowl remained placid. “I have questions. You know what I am and yet you’ve not revealed me. Why?”

“Wha’ would th’ point be? Yar the Senate’s attack turbo-hound. It’s more trouble than it’s worth.”

“And yet the knowledge still has worth. You could hold it over me. Use it as leverage.”

“I got better things t’ do than play with blackmail.” Jazz hissed.

A long stare passed between them.

Prowl smiled enigmatically. “You’re a puzzle aren’t you,” he stated.

Jazz scoffed. “I ain’t a complicated mech.”

“Hmm… so you say, but your actions tell a different story.” Prowl finally removed his servo from Jazz’s faceplates and backed up to one side of the lift. Jazz relaxed his defensive posture, still uneasy, and tucked the blade away as he retreated to the other side of the lift. Prowl typed in a code on the lift panel and it started upwards again.

“You Spec Ops are good at keeping secrets. I wonder if you and that youngling will keep mine.”

Jazz tensed again. “If ya hurt Bluestreak, I’ll kill ya.”

Prowl’s sensor panels fanned out slightly. “You misunderstand. I have no intention of hurting your youngling.”

“Then wha’ did ya mean?” Jazz asked impatiently.

Prowl gave him another inscrutable smile. “I merely meant that perhaps being in my confidence will reap you and yours some future benefits.”

The lift dinged, announcing their arrival to Jazz’s floor. He scooted out, keeping as much distance between him and the Praxian as possible. Not turning his back.

As the door closed, Prowl held his gaze and spoke. “Think about it, Jazz.”

Jazz doubted he’d be thinking about much else for the next few cycles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The fluff is so easy to write! :)


	4. Easy Missions and Visitations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jazz has to go back into the field.

“Will you be gone long?” Bluestreak asked anxiously. His apprehensive, little blue optics almost broke Jazz’s spark. He wasn’t quite wringing his servos, but it was a close thing.

“Not long, lil one. Jus’ two cycles.” Jazz promised. He was currently kneeling in front of his young charge. Bumblebee stood patiently behind the youngling, EMF extended and offering comfort. He was going to stay in their hab with Blue while Jazz was away.

Bluestreak didn’t look reassured. “Will you be in danger?”

By now the youngling had a vague understanding that the Ops mechs did things on missions that were more dangerous than the average patrol.

Jazz gave him an easy smile. “Nah. Jus’ a drop off t’ ‘nother agent.” It was true, even if he omitted the part where he was going into an area occupied by Decepticon sympathizers. An easy mission in the grand scheme of things.

Bluestreak still frowned, but after a long, scrutinizing look, some of the worry cleared from his face. “Okay.”

“Ya want me t’ bring ya back some treats?” Jazz asked lightly.

Little doorwings twitched hopefully. “Yes, please. Something with gold in it?” He was always so cutely polite.

“Ya got it! An’ don’ ya worry, I’ll be back b’fore ya know it.”

Bluestreak held out his arms for a hug which Jazz happily gave. Then he picked the mechling up for good measure. He spun them around, making Blue giggle, before setting him back down again. He lightly tapped Bluestreak’s olfactory with a digit.

Jazz then looked to Bee. “Thanks fo’ stayin’ with ‘im while I’m away.”

“Anytime.” Bee responded with a smile. 

Jazz focused back on the youngling. “I’ll see ya soon, Blue,” he said warmly.

“See you soon.” Bluestreak echoed.

Spec Ops never said goodbye before a mission. It was a superstition that Bluestreak had already picked up on.

With one last check-in on comms with Redshift, Jazz was on his way.

Altihex was far too close to Iacon for the Autobots to be comfortable with the amount of Decepticon sympathizers in the city. Thus, there were several Autobot agents stationed undercover to monitor the chatter and ensure that the city remained neutral.

Privately Jazz didn’t think that status quo was going to last much longer. Especially given what had just happened to Praxus, another neutral city.

He’d changed his paint to a pale green and his visor to a muted amber. He’d arrived, gotten a hotel room and did a little sight-seeing and bar hopping the first cycle while keeping his audials and optics open for rumors and rumblings. It seemed that the destruction of Praxus had polarized the city, some wanting to go ahead and declare allegiance to the Decepticons to avoid destruction and others beginning to turn against the faction that had slaughtered millions of innocents.

The next cycle, Jazz made his way to one of the large parks in the city center. No bot was paying him any mind as he waited for his contact on a bench in front of an oil lake.

Jazz looked over when a voice hailed him by his codename, “Tritone, it’s been a while. How’s your new job in Kalis treating you?”

It was a check in, asking how things in Iacon were holding up.

Jazz grinned at the blue and purple mech he’d never met before and answered without a trace of his normal accent, “Hey Visage. It’s been treating me just fine. And how have you been?”

The answer: Iacon was stable for the time being.

He extended his arm, clasping the other mech’s vambrace, slipping the data chip hidden in his hand into a gap in the mech’s armor. The mech smiled wide.

“Doing A-Okay.”

Drop off received.

With the exchange complete, the blue and purple mech sat down next to Jazz on the bench. They made meaningless small talk for a while to keep the allusion of friendship, filling up silence while saying nothing. Half a joor passed. As Jazz was considering bringing the meeting to a close, Visage said something that made his frame tense up.

“Terrible what happened to Praxus, hu? So, the rumor mill around here says that somebot actually made it out. Apparently some of the big names are interested in finding out if that’s true.”

Jazz carefully kept anything incriminating out of his field. He hadn’t heard that during his foray. “Can’t say I’ve heard anything about that.”

“Eh, it’s all mostly gossip, anyway. Probably useless.” Visage said, sounding careless and unconcerned.

The information was anything but useless. It was a warning. It painted a target on poor Bluestreak’s back. To be used as a pawn for one or both sides of the conflict. Cast as a victim or a martyr. Jazz and Redshift had done their best to keep Bluestreak’s name from any of the records, naming him only as The Survivor, but apparently even that had been too much information.

And it meant they had a security leak.

After a few more breems the two agents wrapped up their fake conversation and parted ways. Jazz made his way to the transport station, restraining himself from speeding. The last thing he needed right now was to get waylaid by the local authorities and delay his return to Iacon.

He wanted to hug Bluestreak, check all the locks on their hab, and then dive into the codes of Bluestreak’s files to see who had accessed them. In that order.

Fortunately the flight back was only a few joors.

Jazz swung by Bluestreak’s favorite sweet shoppe on his way back to the Gamma Base and picked up some cookies made from gold cream sandwiched between two jasper wafers.

Jazz checked in with Redshift and shared the rumor he’d been told. She came to the same conclusion as him about the security leak. She looked grim, but assured him she would begin looking into it.

Bluestreak greeted him when he entered their hab with a smile bright enough to light the entirety of Gamma Base and an enthusiastic mag-enforced hug. Bumblebee stuck around for a few breems welcoming Jazz back, and then left to go back to his own hab. Blue happily filled Jazz in on what he’d done for the past two cycles, chattering away while munching on the jasper and gold treats.

Once the treats were finished, Bluestreak hesitated uncharacteristically.

“Hey Jazz…” his voice lowered to a whisper, “I need to tell you a secret.”

Jazz bent his helm down close to the younglings. “Okay, lil’ one. I’m all audials.”

“The deactivated mech snuck in and talked to me.”

The Polyhexian froze. A couple of his combat protocols queued up to activate.

“Here? When?”

“The dark-cycle after you left.”

“Wha’ happened?”

“He got in after me and Bumblebee went into recharge. He said he was sorry for waking me up and that he was just checking on me. He told me that he was going to protect us, but that no bot could know about him but us.”

Bluestreak curled more securely into Jazz’s side.

“He… he was kinda scary, but also… nice, I guess? I don’t know…”

Yeah, that had been Jazz’s impression of Prowl, too. 

Jazz pulled Bluestreak up into his lap. “D’ya want me t’ change th’ codes fo’ the locks?” He was probably going to anyway. And install a couple more traps.

Bluestreak nodded. “Yes, please.”

“Ya wanna recharge with me this dark-cycle?”

“Uh huh.”

“Okay, Blue.”

It was clear that Bluestreak was going to need a few cycles to feel safe again. Jazz’s combat protocols had cycled back down, but now indignation simmered to the surface. The Hunter had just waltzed into Jazz’s personal hab as if it wasn’t a gross invasion of privacy. But what was far worse was that he’d thoughtlessly shattered Blue’s sense of security. And that was inexcusable.

After their uncomfortable interaction in the lift Jazz had hoped to keep his distance. If he never called on whatever the ephemeral “future benefits” that Prowl had implied, then he could pretend that the mech didn’t exist. After all, he was a commander of troop movements and unaffiliated with Spec Ops. Or at least his public persona was. 

And Redshift, still unaware of that public persona, had promised that if the Spec Ops had to do a mission with the Hunters again that she would make sure Jazz didn’t have to work with any of them.

But now, Jazz’s protective, stubborn nature was making itself known and he wanted nothing more than to give the mech a piece of his processor for disturbing his young charge.

And a punch to the faceplates for good measure.


	5. A Secret Meeting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jazz confronts Prowl, and they finally have a productive conversation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: There is brief talk of suicide in this chapter.

Jazz considered his options. He could meet with Prowl in the Commander’s office under the pretense of an official meeting, or he could sneak around the cameras in the base and make contact with Prowl in his hab. Either way, he was going to have a _conversation_ with the mech concerning his interpersonal skills.

There was a certain sort of karmic justice at the thought of confronting him in his personal space. So Jazz waited until the duty rosters said Prowl was off shift and then flitted his way around the base security. A pause here, a duck into a hallway there. Counting the kliks between camera sweeps. He was going to have to bring up the blind spots he found with Redshift later. He hadn’t even needed to use the base’s ducts to get from the main areas to the hallway containing the officer’s quarters.

Bluestreak was spending the afternoon with Mirage in the shooting range and wouldn’t miss Jazz for a few joors. The mechling had shown an aptitude for servo-to-optic coordination and the ex-noble had offered to teach him the basics of gun safety and how to shoot.

Jazz knocked on Prowl’s hab door, silently counting down the fifteen kliks he had before the camera in the hall panned back in his direction.

At six kliks the door opened. Prowl tilted his helm inquiringly, a small smile on his dermas. “Jazz, what can I do for you?”

“Can I come in.” Jazz said more than asked, stepping into the room. He should have been afraid, putting himself into an enclosed space with a killer. But at the moment all he felt was irritation and resentment at the assumptions he could almost _hear_ in the mech’s question.

Jazz took in the simple berth, small desk, and the private washracks with a practiced sweep of his optical center. It all looked perfectly normal, but he would bet there were a few hidden compartments in the room.

Prowl closed the door a klik before the camera would have seen it open. “Is there something you need to ask me? This room is secure.”

Jazz had suspected as much.

“No.” Jazz said. “But there is somethin’ I need t’ tell ya.”

“Oh? Very well.”

Jazz turned swiftly and threw a punch at the doorwinged mech’s face. It didn’t connect as solidly as he’d intended because the Praxian had superior reflexes to most normal bots and jerked back at the unexpected movement. But it _did_ connect.

“Ya can’t jus’ barge int’ my quarters in th’ middle o’ th’ darkcycle, ya fragger! Wha’ were ya thinkin’? Ya scared th’ scrap outta Blue. ‘E can barely recharge without nightmares as it is.”

Prowl slowly placed his digits on the slightly scuffed metal of his cheekridge. Jazz could practically _see_ the mech's optical feed narrow in on him. He didn’t look angry. He actually appeared genuinely startled.

Jazz would have been willing to bet a large sum of shinax that it had been a very long time since somebot had managed to get a hit on him.

They stared at one another for a breem in silence.

Finally Prowl spoke “...My apologies, I did not realize how it would affect him.”

Jazz was a bit surprised, to be honest, that Prowl apologized so easily. But he wasn’t ready to forgive just yet. “That’s fo’ sure. Primus, ya broke in t’ ‘is safe space. I’m gonna ‘ave t’ change all th’ locks fo’ ‘e can recharge in ‘is own berth again.”

Prowl gave the rough patch on his cheekridge one last contemplative brush and then dropped his arm to his side. “I see. That is unfortunate. I am unaccustomed to interacting with younglings. I only intended to reassure him that I meant neither of you any harm.”

Jazz crossed his arms over his chestplates. “Forget younglin’s, yar bad at talkin’ t’ bots in general.”

“I’m not, normally.” Prowl protested mildly, only sounding slightly put out. “I suppose I just don’t know how to speak to those who know of my other... activities. It is not something I’ve had to deal with before. I usually leave no witnesses.”

A chill of apprehension curled through Jazz’s lines. It was said so matter-of-factly that Jazz was suddenly forcibly reminded that he was alone in a small space with a Hunter. He tried to keep up a calm demeanor.

“Then why spare us? I ain’t ungrateful, but why?”

Prowl obviously picked up on his discomfort despite his attempts to hide it. The Praxian took a step back and turned his palms outward. A subtle move, but one that implied he was unarmed and innocuous. “You saved my life that day. You and Bluestreak.”

That wasn’t how _Jazz_ remembered it.

“Wha' are ya talkin' about?”

Instead of answering, Prowl asked a seemingly random and unsettling question. “Do you know what the highest cause of fatality is amongst my kind?”

His kind? Hunters?

“Uh, stab wounds?” Jazz didn’t mean it as a joke, but it sort of tumbled out of his vocalizer before he could stop it.

“Suicide.” Prowl corrected evenly.

Jazz was horrified. “Wha’?”

“Our original function and what we are forced to do now often conflict.”

“Original function?”

“The Hunters were originally supposed to be bodyguards, but over time that idea became twisted by greed and selfishness. Our kind came from orphans chosen from youngling centers around Cybertron. The Senate had loyalty and protection coding integrated into our very systems. We were trained and molded into weapons, then placed back into our cities of origin. The Senate’s unseen blades among the population. We went from protectors to assassins."

Prowl sighed, a strange, wistful smile on his face.

“But the Senate forgot that we were still bots. We still formed attachments, experienced emotions, questioned our existence. Fought against the chains that foriegn code put on us. Some of us choose to be sent back to the Well rather than live with ourselves.”

"Tha’s…” Jazz didn’t know what to say.

Prowl moved in a slow and deliberate way, telegraphing his movements. He reached in a familiar fashion to place the back of his digits on Jazz’s cheekridge.

“You gave my functioning meaning after Praxus fell. I meant it to be my last mission. Hunting every Decepticon down in my deactivated city until I moved no more. But then I saw you. I saw you risking your functioning to protect the last of my frame-kin when I’d been told that they’d _all_ been wiped out. You and Bluestreak became my mission that cycle.”

“Yar mission?”

“My purpose.”

Jazz still didn’t know what to say. He latched onto a question bouncing around his processor. He reached up and tapped Prowl’s wrist with the tips of his digits. “Why do ya do tha’?”

Prowl knew what he was asking without needing him to elaborate. “Your Ops mods mute your EMF, even from my doorwings. This is the only way I can feel your field.”

“Ya coulda jus’ asked, mech.” Jazz said faintly, mentally off-balance by the intimate gesture.

“Could I have?” Prowl sounded almost amused.

“I turn it off fo’ Blue.”

“Would you do the same for me?”

Jazz hesitated. “...Maybe not yet.” He admitted.

Prowl just smiled and slowly removed his servo. He brushed his own cheekridge again and then lowered his arm. “Is there anything _else_ you need to tell me.”

Jazz actually hadn’t thought this far ahead. His creator-like burst of protective indignation had long since fled him.

He opened his mouth before he could talk himself out of it. “There’s a security leak somewhere tha’s connectin’ Bluestreak t’ th’ last survivor of Praxus. I don’ think I ‘ave t’ tell ya why tha’s bad.”

Prowl’s countenance shifted from pleasant to business. “No, you don’t.”

“Redshift is lookin’ int’ it, bu’ it couldn’t ‘urt t’ ‘ave another set o’ optics on it. Optics tha’ don’ answer t’ anybot in th’ base.”

“I could see to finding a pair of optics that fit that description.” Prowl said. “And if those optics should find where the leak is coming from?”

The implication was clear, but Jazz shook his helm. “Please tell me b’fore anybot gets deactivated. Spec Ops needs t’ know.”

Prowl inclined his helm. “I will take care of it, you have my word… And do apologize to Bluestreak for me, I did not mean to frighten him.”

Jazz vented out a sigh. “Look. If yar serious ‘bout yar...mission, ya need to talk t’ ‘im yourself. Th’ only way ‘e’ll trust ya is if ya make an effort t’ get t’ know ‘im.”

“You would allow such a thing?”

“Well… th’ way I see it, ain’t nobot more capable o’ protectin’ ‘im.”

"You have been doing an admirable job, yourself.” Prowl asserted. “And I am committed to protecting you _both_.”

“Ya need t’ protect Blue firs’. I can take care o’ myself.”

Prowl just smiled. “Spoken like a true creator.”

Jazz shrugged. “I’m jus’ tryin’ t’ do wha’s best fo’ th’ mechlin’.”

“And I find myself admiring you for that.”

Again, Jazz didn’t know what to say to that, so he settled on. “Comm me b’fore ya come to speak with ‘im. Tha’ way I can tell ‘im ya’re comin’ by.” He headed back to the door, accessing his hud to the counter keeping track of the camera in the hallway.

“I will see you both at a later time, then.” Prowl said, watching him go.

Jazz paused, nodded and then slipped out of the door.


	6. Setting Boundaries

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prowl is invited over.

Prowl sent Jazz a message a few cycles later requesting a meeting between himself and Bluestreak. Jazz wasn’t surprised that it had taken so little time. Prowl had come off as a mech that would act as soon as he’d decided the action to take.

Jazz gently brought it up with Bluestreak letting him know in no uncertain terms that he could refuse. The youngling thought about it quietly for a few breems.

“I think… I think I’d like to meet him. He _seemed_ nice, just… kinda scary. I mean, he’s going to watch out for us, right? That means he’s a good guy, right?”

Jazz hesitated for just a klik and then summoned up a smile. “I think ‘e’s tryin’ to be.”

Bluestreak nodded. “Yeah… Okay. He can come by.”

Once given permission, Prowl arranged a time to come by their hab the next evening. 

After entering and answering Jazz’s greeting, Prowl came to stand in the middle of the room. He paused for a moment, doorwings sweeping out wide and then back. “Am I safe to assume this room, like most of the others in the Spec Ops wing, is secure?”

“T’is.”

It was just the three of them in the hab. The room was smaller than Prowl’s, though it contained an extra small berth for Bluestreak along with Jazz’s berth, a tiny couch, and his desk. That made Prowl’s feat of sneaking in without waking Bumblebee even more impressive/disturbing. Though Jazz was almost sure that Prowl must have slipped the minibot agent some sort of tranq to keep him from waking. But that was just his theory…

Now Bluestreak and Prowl stared at each other, the younger from his magnetized position on Jazz’s back, peeking over the visored mech’s shoulder pauldron.

At length, Prowl reset his vocalizer and said, “Hello Bluestreak. I came to apologize for upsetting you.”

“You looked deactivated when you woke me up. It was scary.” Bluestreak stated bluntly. “And coming into our hab without asking was rude.”

“Yes.” Prowl agreed with a smile. “And I promise not to do it again. I ask for your forgiveness. Both you and Jazz.”

Prowl’s doorwings made a series of complicated twitches and flutters. Jazz couldn’t see behind himself, but he felt the disturbance of air currents as Bluestreak mutely made some sort of answer.

Finally, Bluestreak said, “Okay. I forgive you. Just ask next time.” The youngling’s innocent trust made something warm and protective flare up in Jazz’s spark.

Prowl turned his optics to the older mech. “And do I have your forgiveness, Jazz?”

“Yeah… fo' now.”

“That is acceptable.” He paused again. “I find myself wishing to spend more time with the two of you, if that would be permissible.”

Jazz felt Bluestreak shift forward with interest. “Right now?” The mechling asked curiously.

“If that’s alright with you and your caretaker.”

Blue gave a soft inquiring chirp in Jazz’s audial. It was a very Polyhexian way of communication that the mechling had picked up from him.

Jazz projected a calm and confident field, letting the mechling know that he felt in control of the situation. His confidence would bolster Bluestreak’s own.

“Up t’ ya, Blue.”

Bluestreak turned to look at Prowl again. “You can stay for awhile. Do you like games? Bumblebee just taught me how to play Primes and Protectors. Do you know how to play?”

“I do.” Prowl said.

Bluestreak nodded decisively. “Okay. We can play that. I’ll get it.”

He climbed down from his perch on Jazz’s back and went to retrieve the game from a small shelf next to his little berth. The two adults were left looking at one another for a klik, then Jazz gestured to the small couch. When Prowl sat Jazz pulled out a small folding table. 

Bluestreak came back with the game and began to set it up.

Prowl pinged Jazz’s short range comm as the Polyhexian sat himself down on the other cushion of the couch. The size of the piece of furniture meant the two adults were nearly rubbing armor sitting next to each other.

:I have an update for you.:

:About th’ security leak? Tha’ was fast.:

Jazz hadn’t heard anything from Redshift yet and she was the head of Spec Ops. Granted, she had just been sent on a mission.

:One of mine is specialized in code diving.:

:’Nother Hunter?: Jazz asked, leery.

:He is in my confidence. He will not betray us.:

:...If ya say so. Wha’s th’ update?:

:It seems that the security leak originated from a certain individual who was too liberal in his messaging. For a mech who’s job it is to keep track of the security on base, Sharptone is remarkably terrible at holding his own glossa.:

Jazz shifted back into his chair. :Tha’s an issue.:

:It is.:

Prowl let that hang between them for a moment.

Bluestreak clambered up into Jazz’s lap. He looked at Prowl with something approaching a challenging glint in his optics. “Jazz and I’ll play the Prime side. You can be the Protector’s side.”

He was very carefully testing the mech. Waiting to see if the older Praxian would lash out at him. Jazz could feel the determined flare of his EMF. No doubt the mechling thought he was being quite brave by telling the Hunter what to do.

Jazz put his arms around his charge and gave him a little hug.

He wasn’t sure if Prowl picked up on what was happening, but the older Praxian merely smiled and said mildly, “As you wish.”

As Bluestreak leaned forward in Jazz’s arms to make the first move, the Polyhexian’s comm pinged again.

:You know you need but ask and the security leak will no longer be a problem.:

:No.: Jazz said flatly. :I’m grateful fo’ th’ info, bu’ I’ll deal with it myself. Mechs like Sharptone make enough mistakes t’ make ‘em easy t’ replace without offin’ ‘em.:

Prowl’s reply was laced with _amusement_ , of all things. :Very well.:

They continued to play their game, Bluestreak slowly warming up to the other Praxian. After Prowl won the first game, Bluestreak asked him to play another. During the second game Bluestreak tentatively asked if Prowl had ever been to the Helix Gardens in Praxus, sadly divulging that he missed them when Prowl answered in the affirmative.

“Would you like some crystals of your own to grow?” Prowl asked gently. “I have some new buds from my own cultures that I would gladly give to you.”

“You have crystals?” Bluestreak asked, intrigued.

“Yes, I keep them in my office.”

Bluestreak twisted around to look at Jazz. “Can we have crystals in the hab?”

“‘Course we can, Blue.” Jazz answered. Crystals, unlike mecha-animals, were allowed on base. Bluestreak couldn’t have any pets, but a tiny garden was doable.

The youngling nodded. “Then, yes, I would like some of the crystal buds, please.”

Prowl looked pleased, his doorwings flicking up.

They spent the remainder of the evening, strangely cosy, playing games until it was time for Bluestreak to recharge. Jazz and Bluestreak bid Prowl a good dark-cycle at the door. Just before he left, Prowl half raised his servo towards Jazz’s face in a very familiar gesture before seeming to stop himself. He curled his digits loosely and dropped his servo.

“What were you doing?” Bluestreak asked warily.

Prowl smiled. “I forgot for a moment that I am earning Jazz’s field. I meant no harm. Recharge well, both of you. I will see you soon.” Then he left before Bluestreak or Jazz could say anything else.

Which of course meant the Bluestreak asked Jazz what Prowl had meant by “earning Jazz’s field”.

Jazz really wished he knew the answer to that, himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, some fluff, and a little bit of plot. :)


	7. A Little Party

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bluestreak wants to visit the twins.

A few cycles later, Jazz was sitting at his small desk in the hab going over a couple of reports. They were from Redshift’s desk, but since she was still on a mission, Jazz was dealing with them. They were non-critical and low security.

The hab door opened to admit Bluestreak who’d been out with Mirage while Jazz worked. The mechling held a plate full of energon goodies.

“See you later, Mirage! I had fun baking with you.”

The blue and white ex-noble smiled with uncharacteristic warmth, brushing Bluestreak’s helmvent with a light servo (it was as good as a hug from the reserved mech). “I as well, Bluestreak. Have a good evening.” With a single genial nod to Jazz, Mirage left.

Jazz smiled to himself and put away the datapads. He was ready with empty servos when Bluestreak made it to him and clambered up onto Jazz’s lap after carefully placing the plate on the desk. Bluestreak gave a hello snuggle and chirp which Jazz reciprocated with a warm, open field. 

“Hey Jazz?” Bluestreak said as they shared the goodies. “Can we go visit Sideswipe and Sunstreaker’s hous- I mean base? It’s their creation cycle soon. Well, actually, their adoption cycle. They don’t know when their actual creation cycle is so they celebrate their creation cycle on their adoption cycle. And I wanted to get them presents.”

“Yeah? I think we can arrange somethin’.”

Jazz was more than willing to indulge the youngling with such a request. Not only was it sweet, but it was the first time Bluestreak had willingly asked to leave the base. It showed just how much progress he’d made.

“We can?! Yes! Thank you!” Bluestreak threw his arms around Jazz’s neck. He pulled back quickly. “I already know what I want to get them. I want to get Sunny some of those mineral chalks. He told me he wanted to try them out. And I want to get Sideswipe that new racing game that just came out. Um, I think it’s called Street Force? Is that okay?”

“‘Course it is, Blue. I’m sure they’ll love what ya get ‘em. I’ll comm Ironhide an’ ask ‘im when a good time t’ com visit is.”

Bluestreak’s doorwings fluttered happily. “I’m so excited! I’ve missed them. They live on Beta Base, right? Is that far away? Will we have to take a transport or can we drive there?”

Jazz chuckled and stood up with Bluestreak still in his arms. He danced them around the room, sending Bluestreak into squeals of laughter. “We’ll get a transport jus’ fo’ us. We can get th’ presents ya want t’ get ‘em an’ some treats fo’ our lil’ party.”

“Yaaaay! You’re the best, Jazz!”

A quick comm to General Ironhide was all it took to set up a date and time for two cycles from then. The older warrior was more than happy to allow them over for a special playdate. He confided in Jazz,

:My mechlings adore your little tyke. I think havin’ him ‘round makes ‘em feel like they’ve got somethin’ to protect. It’s good for ‘em.:

:Blue really likes the twins, too. They’ve helped him feel safe.: Jazz admitted.

:I’m glad to hear that. All’a our little mechs have been through too much in their short lives already.:

:Yeah. Yar tellin’ me.:

Ironhide chuckled. :I’ll keep ya’lls visit a surprise. Otherwise those two’ll be bouncin’ offa the walls all cycle.:

Jazz laughed too. :See ya soon.:

Bumblebee ended up making the run to the stores for the things Bluestreak wanted to get for the twins. The mechling had wanted to go himself, but it was apparent that the thought of going into a shop made him anxious.

While they waited for the yellow minibot to get back with their purchases, Bluestreak told Jazz in a whisper that that’s what he and his creators had been doing when the bombs started dropping on Praxus. 

His doorwings drooped, “It’s dumb, I shouldn’t still be scared.” 

Jazz responded by sweeping him up into a hug. “It’s not dumb, sweetspark. Ya experienced real horror and trauma. Ya’re feelin’s are valid. One day ya’ll be ready t’ move on, but ain’t nobot gonna be able t’ tell ya when tha’ is ‘cept ya. And tha’s okay.”

Bluestreak buried his face into Jazz’s neck cables, field full of relief. “I love you, Carer.”

Jazz nearly melted. “I love ya too, lil’ one.”

The door chime sounded, Jazz’s comm pinging with Bumblebee’s id.

Bluestreak gave Jazz one more squeeze and then hopped off his lap. “I’ll get it. It’s Bumblebee, right?”

“‘T’is.”

Bluestreak scampered to the hab door and opened it. Bumblebee smiled at the youngling from the doorway and held out two bags. One was emblazoned with the name of Bluestreak’s favorite sweet shoppe and the other with a local toy store.

“Thank you, Bumblebee.” Bluestreak said politely, taking the bags.

“Any time, Blue.” Bumblebee answered cheerfully, turning to leave, “Have fun at your friends’.”

Bluestreak skipped back over to Jazz. “Is it time to go now?”

“Sure is.” Jazz smiled. He got up and offered Blue his servo. “I’ve got th’ transport all ready fo’ us outside.”

Bluestreak happily took Jazz’s servo and the two of them exited the hab, walking to the lift and riding it down to the ground floor of the base. As they headed out of the main doors, Jazz happened to look around and spotted Prowl standing at the end of the central corridor. The white and black Praxian’s doorwings flicked up and down, optics on the two of them as they left. 

Jazz didn’t stop, but he frowned in confusion. What had that been about? He chalked it up to the mech being strange and tried to put it to the back of his processor.

It took about half a joor to get to the Beta Base. One of the reasons Jazz had gotten permission to use the transport was that he hadn’t wanted Blue to have to drive the distance. The other reason was that it was easier to hide the mechling inside the non-sentient vehicle. The mechling happily watched the world go by the windows from his spot in the passenger seat.

The Beta Base was quite different from the Gamma Base. It was built out rather than up, in an octagon shape. Each side of the base contained a numbered gate, making the deployment of troops easier.

Jazz parked the transport outside of the third gate. Ironhide’s mate, Chromia waited for them. Bluestreak lit up at the sight of her. The light blue and white femme with swept back helm fins was a familiar sight. She’d been over to Gamma Base with the twins on one of their visits.

“Hello, Miss Chromia!” Bluestreak said as Jazz helped him out of the transport.

The femme chuckled. “And hello to you, bitlit. So polite, you could teach my mechlings some knowhow about manners.” Her gaze transferred to Jazz. “Good to see you again, Jazz.”

The Polyhexian gave her an easy smile as he walked up to her with Bluestreak.

“Good t’ see ya as well.”

“Mister Ironhide said that our visit was going to be a surprise for Sunny and Sides. I hope that’s okay. I just missed seeing them and since it’s almost their creation-adoption cycle, I got them some presents.” Bluestreak held up the bags he was carrying.

“You are just the sweetest, I know they’ll be so excited to see you.” She said beckoning them into the base with a fond look on her face.

The walk to their hab was filled with Bluestreak chattering happily to Chromia about his rising scores in the shooting range. The moment Chromia opened the door to the hab, they heard Sideswipe shouting.

“‘Mia’s back! We get our surprise now, right?”

Chromia chuckled. “‘Hide let it slip that you were getting a surprise, huh? Well, can’t keep it a secret now, I suppose.”

Ironhide and Chromia’s hab was bigger than Jazz and Bluestreak’s; multi roomed and big enough for a small family. Sideswipe and Sunstreaker bounded out from a different room, stopping short in the living area as they caught sight of their guests.

“Is Blue our surprise?” Sideswipe asked eagerly while Sunstreaker looked hopeful.

“Happy early creation-adoption cycle!” Bluestreak said brightly. “We brought you presents and treats.”

The twins whooped and almost mobbed the grey mechling. Chromia tutted and kept them from bowling the younger over. The femme security officer was just like her mate in attitude towards the younglings around them. Careful and gentle in a way that belied the fact that she could and had taken down bots twice her size in her career as an Autobot.

Jazz let himself relax as the younglings played. It was a good little party. Treats were shared. Sideswipe insisted that they all play his new game together. And Sunstreaker’s digits were covered in chalk when he offered Bluestreak a picture he’d drawn of a turbo-fox to take home with him at the end of their visit. 

Bluestreak bounced happily in his seat as they drove home in the transport. He was already asking when they could come back to visit.

About halfway back to Gamma Base, Jazz spotted the tail they’d picked up. A few kliks after his realization, one of his encrypted Spec Ops comm channels pinged for his attention.

With an id that was also encrypted that he didn’t recognize.

He answered it anyway.

An unknown voice spoke up over the comm. :You have picked up a tail.:

:I noticed.: Jazz answered sarcastically :Who is this?:

:I am an associate of Prowl’s.:

Another Hunter? Or something else?

:What do you want?:

:Nothing. I will assist you in escaping them. Two streets from here take a left turn.:

Jazz’s paranoia reared it’s helm with a vengance. :Why are you helping us?:

:Because Prowl and I share a kinship, and you gave him a reason to continue to live. Take the left.:

It was said as such a statement of fact, that Jazz found himself believing it.

“Is something wrong, Carer?” Bluestreak suddenly asked. “You turned your field off.”

Jazz hid a wince; he hadn’t realized that he’d allowed his Ops mods to mask his EMF out of reflex. “Sorry, lil’ one, it’s a habit. I’m jus’ dealin’ with a message I got.”

Bluestreak’s doorwings tilted with quizzical worry. “Is it Ops stuff?”

“Yeah,” Jazz lied, feeling like a piece of slag for doing so. “Jus’ didn’t want t’ upset ya.”

“Okay.” Bluestreak said trustingly. The youngling was unaware that they were going a different way then they had before, even as he turned his helm to look out the window again little legs kicking back and forth.

Jazz kept track of their position in the city on his HUD, following the unknown voice in his audial. After several twists and turns and some time later, the voice spoke with the barest hint of relief. 

:You have lost the tail. It is safe to continue back to your base now.:

:I s’ppose I shoul’ thank ya.: Jazz said hesitantly.

:There is no need.: The voice said briskly, but not unkindly. :I consider Prowl one of my cohort and helping his charges is well within my ability. And Prowl will take care of the interloper, as is well within his ability.:

:Wha’ does tha’ mean?: Jazz asked sharply.

He was met with nothing but silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whelp, made a big old edit to chapter five because I wanted different details for the Hunters origin story.


	8. Office Commotion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prowl and Jazz have a fight.

The moment Jazz and Bluestreak got back to their hab, Jazz received a comm from Prowl.

:Would you come to my office, please. I need to speak with you.”

Slight annoyance flared for a klik, he had _just_ gotten back, and he was still a little (a lot) weirded out by earlier. Somebot had used one of his _encrypted_ comms to somehow guide him through the city. He was unsettled to say the least.

But Prowl was a commanding officer and he didn’t have a good reason to refuse him. 

:I’ll be there in a few breems.: Jazz answered.

:Acknowledged.:

“Hey, lil’ one, th’ Commander needs t’ see me. Ya want t’ go t’ Bumblebee’s room or will ya be okay ‘ere by yarself fo’ a bit?”

Bluestreak considered for a moment. “I’ll go visit Bee. I wanna tell him about our party and give him some of the leftover treats to thank him for going to the store for me. You’re not in trouble are you?”

Jazz smiled “I don’ think so, sweetspark.”

“Okay,” Bluestreak said with a nod. “I can walk myself to Bee’s, I don’t want to make you late.”

“A’ight. I’ll give ya a comm when I’m done.”

It only took a few moments for Jazz to get to Prowl’s office. The door slid open at his chime.

“Ya wanted t’ see me, Sir?” Best to keep it professional when outside of their personal quarters.

“Yes,” Prowl said evenly. “Please come in.”

Jazz walked in and let the door shut behind him. He didn’t know what Prowl wanted.

So he was justifiably confused when the door lock engaged.

He was less confused and more concerned when a signal jammer and a white noise generator activated.

Prowl stood slowly, doorwings flared out to their fullest extent. His optics burned.

Jazz still wasn’t super well-versed in doorwing, but he was paramount at reading body language. And in that moment he realized that Prowl was _slagged off_.

The Praxian spoke, voice low and tight. “From now on you _will_ inform me of any time you or Bluestreak leave Gamma Base.”

Any apprehension was swept away by irritation. “D’ya want our refueling schedules and berth times too?” Jazz snarked back.

Prowl growled in response. “This is not a joke! Do you have any idea how easily one or both of you could have been taken?”

“Now yar jus’ insulin’ me.” Jazz snapped, anger rising. “I knew we were bein’ followed, even b’fore yar _friend_ decided t’ butt in. I’m not a civilian. Pit, I’m not even a regular grunt; I’m Spec Ops. I know ‘ow t’ ‘andle myself!”

“Your stalker was an unknown quantity. It could have been anybot.”

“An’ I was ready t’ adapt an’ improvise t’ get us outta there.”

“You wouldn’t have needed to if you had just been responsible and told me.” Prowl’s voice rose.

Jazz matched him in volume. “Wha’ is it tha’ ya think ya could’a done, Prowl?”

“I am supposed to protect you!” 

“I never asked fo’ yar protection!”

Prowl’s engine roared. He sent his desk screeching to the side, slamming into the wall, datapads scattering. He was on Jazz in half a klik. 

The Polyhexian ducked away from clawed servos, getting behind him. He aimed a strike at Prowl’s doorwings. 

Prowl looked at him from over his shoulder pauldron. There was a calculating look in his optics and a bizarre smirk on his dermas. “If I were any normal Praxian, that would have worked, but I was forged as a weapon.”

He turned quickly and slammed into Jazz with the doorwing the visored mech had just tried to damage. Disoriented, Jazz stumbled back, static obscuring his vision. Working on instinct, Jazz flipped a dagger out of each of his vambraces. He threw one in Prowl’s direction. In the next moment, clawed servos dug into his shoulder pauldrons. Jazz crossed his arms in front of him defensively. Then he was slammed back against the wall.

As the static cleared, Prowl’s faceplates filled his vision. He was gazing at Jazz intensely. A bleeding slash on his cheek informed Jazz that he’d managed to hit him with the thrown dagger. A klik later Jazz registered that his second dagger was pressed against Prowl’s throat deep enough to cut into a cable. Another trickle of mech blood slowly ran down his neck. 

Prowl’s EMF was pressed up right against Jazz’s. The realization hit him that he was in no danger. There was no intent to kill in Prowl’s field. 

“Ya make no sense.” Jazz whispered. “Ya say ya want t’ protect me an’ then ya attack me.”

Prowl gave no indication that he was perturbed by the knife at his throat. Optics overbright, the tell-tale white at the edges that promised a massive helm ache later. “I’m sorry. The code… There’s a glitch of cognitive dissonance. I just want...”

A small whisper of empathy bloomed in Jazz’s spark. Some of the operatives in the Spec Ops had conflicting code installed in their processors to make them better at their jobs. Prowl’s reaction… it was a classic response to conflicting code reacting badly to outside stimuli. A small thread of guilt made its way through Jazz’s processor, he’d inadvertently caused the outburst.

“Wha’ do ya want?” Jazz asked carefully. 

“I want you to live.” Prowl’s optics blazed.

“I ‘ave no intention o’ deactivatin’ or lettin’ Blue deactivate.”

“Please let me help you.” The Praxian’s voice took on a hint of a desperate tone.

Jazz thought for a moment, gently removing his knife and slipping it back into his vambrace. “Teach me, then. I can always use more combat training and ya’re obviously skilled. Will tha’ appease yar code without needin’ t’ know where we are at all times?”

Prowl released his hold on Jazz and took a step back, “...I think I would help, yes. We would need to meet secretly. My skill with combat is not something known by the Autobots. To them I am a tactician, not a frontliner.”

“I see. Part o’ yar cover?”

“You could call it that.” 

“I can agree t’ those terms.” Jazz said.

“If I may then make a request that if you are planning an outing that you would let me know. Please.”

“Yeah. I can do tha’.”

Prowl righted his chair which had been knocked over. He gave Jazz a strangely vulnerable look. “Sit? I will tend to your injuries. I am no medic, but I know how to do small field repairs. I do not want Bluestreak to become worried. And it will help settle my code.”

Jazz sat gingerly. Prowl went to his disordered desk and pulled a small medical kit out of the bottom drawer. The visored mech consciously held himself still as Prowl took out some nanite gel and sealant. The Praxian smoothed the gel over a rough spot on Jazz’s helm from where the doorwing hit him and then filled in the ten dents where claws had sunk into his shoulder pauldrons.

When Prowl was done, Jazz got up and gestured to the chair. “Yar turn.”

Prowl’s optics flickered. “What?”

“Sit.” Jazz said impatiently. “Ya’re injured too.”

Prowl took the spot in the chair, nonplussed. Jazz cleaned the cuts, dabbed nanite gel on them, and filled them with the sealant. While he worked, Prowl watched his movements.

“My cohort mates used to do this for me.” Prowl said unexpectedly.

“Yar friend said ya shared a kinship.”

“They were the closest thing I had to a family growing up.”

“I’m glad ya ‘ad somebot.”

They lapsed back into silence as Jazz finished up.

“D’ ya want ‘elp puttin’ yar office back in order?” Jazz offered.

“I will take care of it.” Prowl said, shaking his helm. “I don’t want to keep you from Bluestreak.”

“A’ight.” Jazz said easily. “Blue wants ‘nother game with ya in a few cycles. I’ll comm ya with th’ time.”

“Please tell him I am looking forward to it. And I will arrange our schedules so that we can meet in one of the Ops training rooms without suspicion.”

“I will.”

He left Prowl sitting in the middle of the chaos of his office. 

Jazz was looking forward to recharge. He’d already been tired after a full cycle of playing younglings and then a tense drive brimming with anxiety. To finish off the cycle with an impromptu brawl and emotional roller coaster had left him drained. 

He really needed the defrag after what just happened.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yep, that summary was literal. Also, Prowl is still working on that communication thing. The code is not helping.


	9. Promotion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jazz gets an unexpected promotion

Jazz did not get a full recharge.

In the early joors of the next cycle he was kicked into wakefulness by an encrypted priority message flashing red on his HUD.

Blearily, he looked over to make sure he hadn’t disturbed Bluestreak, but the youngling was still recharging soundly on his small berth.

After checking on his charge, he turned his attention to the message. The encrypted id tagged it as Redshift. Relief flooded Jazz’s processor. She’d been under radio silence while on the mission and now she was finally checking in.

He opened the message.

:Jazz, if you’re getting this, then the dead switch in my processor has triggered and I’m now deactivated.:

Jazz sat up in his berth, denial clamped between his denta so he wouldn’t wake Blue.

:Our intelligence for this mission was bad and the Decepticons were looking for spies. I’m pretty sure I’ve been made, but I won’t go down without taking some of them with me. You’ve always been my best agent, Jazz, and I gladly leave command of Spec Ops in your capable servos. Heh, I was going to recommend you for the position anyway, but I suppose I ran out of time. It doesn't matter, when you get this message, high command will receive word of your promotion. I just wish I could have told you in person to see your face.:

:The information I was able to gather on the security leak about The Survivor is in a file on my server. I’m sorry it isn’t complete, but it’s a start. I also left a recorded message in the top drawer of my desk in my office for all of Spec Ops in case of this circumstance, so if you could please gather everybot to listen to my final words, I would appreciate it.:

:The end of this message contains a ciphered data packet with my passwords. They're yours now, Jazz. I know you’ll use them wisely. Good luck.:

Jazz stared down at his servos. Redshift was gone? And she expected him to be the new head of Spec Ops at Gamma Base?

He sat there silently for a long time unsure of how to even process the loss of the femme that had been like a mentor to him. 

As he sat in contemplation, he received another message, this time from high command. It was a cold, formal notification of his sudden promotion.

He needed to call the Ops division together, preferably before the alpha shift started. But he didn’t want to subject Bluestreak to the stress and chaos of this particular meeting. And all of his regular minders needed to be present.

Well… there was one bot he could call, but he needed to make sure Blue was okay with it first.

Jazz slid out of his berth and knelt next to the smaller berth. Gently, he woke the youngling.

Bluestreak’s optics flickered on sleepily. “Carer? Is it time to get up?”

Jazz managed a sad smile. “Not quite, sweetspark, but alla th’ spec operatives need t’ ‘ave a meetin’. I didn’ want t’ leave ya by yourself, so I was wonderin’ if ya would mind if I called Prowl t’ come look after ya while I’m busy.”

Bluestreak’s optics flickered as his drowsy processor mulled over the information. He slowly nodded, “That would be okay, I guess. He’s supposed to come over to play games anyway.”

Jazz softly stroked the youngling’s helm. “Okay, I’ll call ’em. Go on back into recharge, I’ll wake ya again b’fore I leave.”

“Promise?”

“I promise.”

Bluestreak churred happily at the comforting touch, snuggling back down into his blankets trustingly and quickly slipped back into recharge.

Jazz sat back on his berth and sent a comm to Prowl.

Prowl answered relatively quickly for the early joor. He sounded far too awake. :Jazz… I just received a message about your… promotion.:

Jazz winced. :Already, huh?:

:My condolences for your loss.:

:Yeah… Look, I’m sorry for callin’ so early, but Blue’s usual minders are gonna be busy with me for a while. Could ya…?:

:I will be there in five breems.:

:...Thank ya.:

Jazz waited, silent and still, processor whirling while it laid out a plan. He sent out a mass message to all the Ops mechs for a mandatory emergency meeting in a joor. It was fortunate that all of the operatives stationed at Gamma Base were present at the base currently. Only Redshift had been out on a mission. He wondered if she had suspected bad intel before she left.

Jazz tucked that thought away to examine later.

There was a soft knock on the hab door. Jazz got up and opened the door to see the white and black Praxian waiting patiently on the other side. Prowl had a neutral look on his faceplates, but a small tendril of sympathy and comfort extended from his field. Jazz nodded to him and let him in.

“Thanks fo’ comin’.” Jazz murmured.

“Of course. I can stay as long as you need me.”

“I don’ want t’ keep ya from yar own duties.”

“You won’t.” Prowl said assuredly. “Need I remind you that my duties include looking after your and Bluestreak’s wellbeing.”

Jazz just shook his helm. He didn’t have the energy to argue with Prowl’s idiosyncrasies right at the moment. 

Prowl took something out of his subspace and held it out to Jazz, “Here.” 

It was a dagger that Jazz recognized as his own. 

“You left it in my office after our last… conversation.”

“Thanks fo’ returnin’ it.” Jazz murmured, slipping it easily into his vambrace.

The Polyhexian knelt back down next to Bluestreak’s berth and gently woke him again. After his sleepy optics powered on, it took the youngling a moment to remember why Jazz had woken him again.

“You have to go now? Will you be gone long? Is something bad happening?”

Jazz crooned soothingly and then explained, “I gotta go take care o’ some things with th’ other operatives. I’ll comm ya if it’s gonna take longer than a few joors. In th’ meantime, ya behave fo’ Prowl, yeah?”

Bluestreak looked over Jazz’s shoulder at the older Praxian. “Only if you promise not to go grey and scary. If you do, I’m going to go in the vents.”

“I promise.” Prowl said seriously.

Despite the grave reason for Prowl’s presence, Jazz had to nobly choke down a laugh at the exchange, spark lightening for a few kliks.

Jazz hugged Bluestreak tightly for a moment. And though the mechling gave a soft squeak, he hugged back with a chirp, probably feeling that Jazz needed it from his tightly held EMF.

Jazz left them and headed to Redshift’s office. It was a room he’d seen hundreds of times. Before and after missions, for commendations and reprimands. On the desk there were in and out trays for datapads, a cup full of styluses (though Redshift had a favorite one that she used constantly), a terminal, and an empty crystal bowl that usually held rust sticks. Behind the desk was Redshift’s chair and a few filing cabinets along the back wall. The filing cabinets were mostly for show, any important documentation was held in the tiny vault under the hidden trap door under her desk. There was another hidden safe behind the hanging picture of the Sonic Canyons, it was usually stocked full of weapons, but he’d have to check to see if Redshift had taken those with her.

With the realization of how intimately he knew the office, Jazz also realized that Redshift had been subtly training him to take over for orns. How had he not noticed? Hesitantly, and feeling like an intruder, Jazz made his way around the desk to shift through the contents of the top drawer for Redshift’s final message. 

He didn’t sit on the chair.

There was enough time to find the message (a small hologram projector with a note attached to it) and steel himself before he needed to be in the largest common room where he’d told everybot to gather. The other twelve agents were standing and sitting in various positions around the room.

Once he was spotted, the questions began.

“Hey Jazz, what’s with the early-cycle meeting?”

“Where’s the bitlet? You didn’t leave him by himself did you?”

“Did Redshift finally check in?”

Jazz held up his servo with a frown. That more than anything shut up the chatter. A quiet, somber Jazz never meant anything good.

“I received a message from Redshift less than two joors ago… It was her dead switch message.”

The room fell completely silent except for a couple of soft, shocked curses.

“She… promoted me. And she asked that I play this message that she recorded for us before she left.”

There was more silence, but most of the other agents were either nodding, or didn’t look very surprised by the information that Jazz was now the head of Sec Ops.

It was Bumblebee who spoke next after a few kliks. “Play the message, Boss.”

Jazz placed the hologram projector on a table and turned it on. A miniature version of Redshift flickered to life, hovering over the tabletop.

The image smiled. “Hello my bots. I guess if this message is getting played, then I owe you all an apology. I’m sorry that I didn’t make it back to you. I confess that I always record one of these before a mission, just in case the worst comes to pass, but I have a bad feeling about this one. Call it paranoia, but I think this one might have my designation on it.”

The holograph shook its helm, “Anyway, You probably already know this, but I name Jazz as my successor to Spec Ops. Don’t give him too hard of a time, please. I know you’ll all continue without me. Have a party for me, okay? Celebrate my functioning instead of mourning my deactivation.”

“Be strong, trust each other and don’t let the darkness of our job get to you. And take care of that youngling, he’s one of the lights still left in this world. It was an honor serving with all of you. ‘Til all are One.”

The image froze and then faded out.

“What now, Boss?” One of the operatives asked. It took Jazz half a klik to realize that _he_ was being asked the question.

“First I need t’ go tell Blue.”

No bot protested telling the youngling. Hiding it from him would have been both impossible and damaging.

“Then I need t’ clean out Redshift’s office… I mean… my office…”

Mirage placed a delicate servo on Jazz’s arm. “Would you like help with the office?”

Several more agents piped up, offering their assistance as well. Gratitude spread through Jazz’s spark like a balm.

“Yeah, thanks I… thanks.”

The ex-noble nodded. “We will wait for you to get back from telling Bluestreak.”

Right. Because there was going to be classified things in Redshift’s office that the rest of them wouldn’t have clearance for.

“A’ight. Then, tonight we’ll ‘ave a wake fo’ Redshift.”

“I’ll get the vintage stuff.” Somebot said.

“We’ll watch that really awful period drama that was her favorite.” Another chimed in.

“Yeah, then we’ll spend the rest of the night telling her stories.” Bumblebee concluded.

Jazz felt himself smile.

It didn’t last long and he was solemn again when he got back to his quarters. As soon as Jazz reentered the hab, Bluestreak picked up that something was amiss. He hopped up from the couch where he’d been sitting next to Prowl playing a round of Primes and Protectors. He lifted his arms to be picked up, which Jazz obliged.

“What’s wrong, Carer?”

“It’s Redshift…” Jazz choked, unable to say more.

Bluestreak gave him a sad look. “She’s not coming back, is she?”

Jazz pressed his dermas together and shook his helm. He sat them back down on the couch next to the older Praxian who looked on with sympathetic concern.

Bluestreak laid his helm in Jazz’s chestplates. “I liked her. She always had rust sticks in her office.”

Jazz gave a weak chuckle. “Yeah. She always ‘ad enough t’ make sure her bots were fueling. We’re gonna ‘ave a ceremony fo’ ‘er tonight. Gonna remember th’ good times.”

“Can I come?” Bluestreak asked hopefully.

“‘Course, sweetspark, she would’a wanted ya there.”

Bluestreak hugged him. Beside Jazz, Prowl’s EMF radiated out comfort.

Like a whisper, Jazz let a small measure of his field brush back against Prowl’s, conveying his thanks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the folks that picked up on Redshift's absence... I'm afraid you were right to be concerned.
> 
> How did this chapter manage to be sad and fluffy at the same time?


	10. Schedules and Training

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jazz learns to balance his new responsibilities.

The next few deca-cycles were busy and stressful for Jazz. As the new head of Spec Ops at the base, he had to plan missions with tactical, coordinate schedules, sift through classified information, train with the other operatives, and compose reports to his new boss, the head of Spec Ops at the Alpha Base. An inscrutable mech named Blackmirror whom he’d only known by reputation until he’d gained his new position.

And he needed to make sure to spend enough time with Bluestreak.

The youngling seemed to be very understanding of Jazz’s new, demanding schedule. Jazz tried his best to accommodate the mechling. He allowed Blue into his office when he was working on non-classified things and always spent mealtimes with him. He also routinely pinged the youngling with his location whenever he moved rooms on base during the cycle.

Sharptone was still making a nuisance of himself. He’d begun making noise again about Bluestreak not belonging with the Ops mechs only a few cycles after Jazz’s promotion and poking his olfactory into Ops business he had no reason or clearance to be part of. If the mech hadn’t been the Security Director, Jazz might have chucked him out of a window from sheer annoyance.

Jazz ended up working more closely with Prowl than he was expecting; the mech running most of the tactical simulations on the Ops missions (and telling Sharptone when to butt out). And privately, Prowl was even more insistent about training now that Jazz was Ops head; they met to spar whenever they could in the bowels of the Ops wing.

Consequently, they were spending much more time together now. And while Jazz never forgot that Prowl was a Hunter, any fear Jazz had been harboring for the black and white Praxian had faded.

The mech was ruthless when it came to military tactics, but he was meticulously methodical when it came to his calculations. Every action, every sacrifice, every bot lost was weighed with the same careful consideration. This had the effect of making him seem like a distant, but all-knowing drone. At least to the rank and file.

When Prowl was alone with Jazz (and Bluestreak) he allowed his professional demeanor to drop and a dry, wry sense of humor emerged to Jazz’s amusement. He’d also proven to be warm and kind to the two of them. 

He’d kept his promise to get Bluestreak his own crystals to grow, bringing Bluestreak several varieties with clear instructions on how to care for each and every one. The youngling now had a small shelf by his berth on which his miniature garden was taking shape.

Needless to say, Jazz had a much closer relationship with Prowl than anybot else on base. And he was realizing that he _liked_ the other mech’s company. He liked Prowl’s dedication, strength, sly jokes and the softness that he showed to Blustreak and himself. And the sudden and unexpected glimpses of marshall skill and prowess had secretly sent his fuel pump pounding more often recently.

Jazz didn’t know if Prowl felt the same about him, but he had noticed more than a few lingering gazes, brushes of field and unnecessary touches. 

In any other normal bot, Jazz would have interpreted those as interest.

But Prowl was anything but normal.

Jazz’s backstrut hit the mat again, knocking the air out of his vents. Prowl waited patiently for him to get back to his pedes before saying, with just the barest hint of playfulness,

“Another point for me.”

Meaning, of course, that had the fight been real, Prowl would have landed a mortal blow.

Jazz had a few points as well, but not nearly as many as the Praxian he was sparring with.

Turns out, Prowl had been holding back when they’d scrapped in his office that first time.

“A’ight.” Jazz said easily. He wasn’t going to let himself get frustrated just yet. Prowl had informed him that he’d been trained from younglinghood to be an efficient killing machine, whereas Jazz had learned to do so only in his adult life. And wasn’t that a terrifying little tidbit.

Truthfully, Jazz had come to enjoy their sparring sessions. All he had to focus on was not getting his aft handed to him and attempting to hand Prowl his own aft.

Jazz adopted a ready fighting stance. “One more round. Then I gotta get back t’ Blue.”

It was late in the dark-cycle and Bluestreak would be in deep recharge, but Jazz had told him he was going to be out at this covert sparring session with Prowl just in case he woke up before Jazz returned.

The little mech was becoming quite the secret keeper.

They circled around one another slowly. Jazz kept his visor keenly trained on the other mech, looking for his opening. Prowl moved so differently when they sparred. When he was working in tactical or with the troops, he always seemed stiff and inflexible. But when he was alone with Jazz he had the gait and posture of a predator. Fluid and clever.

Prowl moved first, aiming a strike at Jazz’s face. Jazz blocked and then twisted to avoid the second strike at his legs. He danced back and grinned.

“Ya ain’t gonna get me with that move again.”

Prowl smirked back. “Good.”

Jazz pressed forward, punching out at the Praxian’s face. More by accident than design, Jazz had discovered in a previous training session that Prowl’s chevron was sensitive in a way that his doorwings were not. But Prowl anticipated him and grabbed his wrists.

“And you will not get me with that one.”

Jazz kicked up at Prowl’s chest and tried to twist out of his grasp. But his grip was too strong. They struggled for a few kliks, and then slowly Prowl started to push Jazz backwards. They were almost the same size, but Jazz had been built for speed and agility, not power.

Jazz knew a losing battle when he saw one. If Prowl got him up against the wall, he’d be trapped. Jazz dropped his weight and brought them both tumbling to the floor. He rolled in an attempt to pin Prowl down, but the other mech reacted by continuing the motion and using his superior bulk to pin _Jazz_ down, servos still wrapped around Jazz’s wrists.

Both of their fans were roaring into the quiet after the noise of their clashing.

Normally, one of them would say something pithy or sarcastic to signal the end of a bout, but Prowl was leaning over his supine form, optics intense and filling his vision. Jazz’s vocalizer caught as Prowl leaned down closer. Helm tilting as if to-

“No! You promised! Don’t hurt Carer!” A young voice and scrabble of metal to their right startled them apart. The grate on the floor vent rattled and fell into the room. Bluestreak tumbled out from the vent and charged at Prowl little doorwings flared in an aggressive display.

The Praxian released Jazz’s wrists and reared up and off the Polyhexian as Bluestreak threw himself across Jazz’s chestplates as if to shield him.

“Don’t hurt Carer!” Bluestreak yelled again.

Pride and mortification were warring for dominance in Jazz’s processor. He sat up and cradled the upset youngling in his arms which prompted the mechling to magnetize himself to Jazz’s plating.

“He ain’t hurtin’ me, Iil’ one. We were jus’ practicin’ some combat training. See? I’m a’ight.”

Bluestreak buried his faceplates into Jazz’s neck cables chirping and clicking in distress before finding his voice again. “I came to find you because I woke up and you weren’t back yet. I-I had a bad dream. I knew you said you were having a secret meeting so I didn’t want anybot to see me so I went through the vents like you taught me. I’m sorry I interrupted but I thought Prowl was hurting you. He was h-holding you d-down and all-all I could remember was the D-D-Decepticons doing that to some of-of-of the bots in Praxus and-an-and-” He voice grew more and more choppy as he tried to get through his traumatic memories.

Jazz realized that he must have pinged Bluestreak the room he was in out of habit when he arrived even though the mechling had been in recharge.

“Easy, Blue.” Jazz murmured, stroking the mechling’s helm gently. “I’m okay. And ya know Prowl ain’t gonna ‘urt me. Or ya. Ya know tha’.”

It took several long moments of Jazz crooning softly before Bluestreak answered.

“Y-yeah, I know.” Bluestreak whispered. He looked over to the black and white Praxian. “I’m sorry. I know you won’t hurt us. You like us.”

Prowl knelt down next to the two of them with a soft look on his faceplates. “It is alright, Bluestreak. You need not apologize. I am sorry for scaring you again.”

Prowl offered a gentle press of his EMF which Bluestreak hesitantly reciprocated.

“We were just about to finish up.” Prowl murmured to the youngling. “May I walk you and your Carer back to your hab?”

Bluestreak nodded.

Jazz got up, still holding his mechling. He extended his field against Prowl’s for a brief brush of gratitude. Prowl brushed back.

They made it back to the hab without incident. Jazz tucked Bluestreak into his own berth singing quietly to him until he drifted back into recharge. Prowl hovered protectively at his back.

When Jazz was sure that the mechling was recharging, he stood and motioned at Prowl. The Praxian followed him to the door where they both stopped. Jazz used his comm as to not disturb the recharging mechling.

:I’ll see ya fo’ our next session with tac, yeah?:

:Of course. I truly am sorry for scaring Bluestreak.:

:’E an’ I both know ya didn’ mean t’. ‘E’s still workin’ through things. Jus’ gotta take it one cycle at a time.: Jazz answered.

Prowl hesitated. :Jazz… may I…?:

Jazz tilted his helm in confusion. :Prowl? May you… wha?:

Prowl reached up a servo, like he was going to brush Jazz’s cheekridge with the back of his digits, but instead cupped the side of his face. Slowly, giving Jazz plenty of time to protest, he leaned in and kissed the visored mech tenderly. It was warm and gentle and never in a million centivorns would Jazz have known it came from a killer.

Prowl pulled back just as slowly as he had approached.

:Ya ‘ave been flirtin’ with me.: Jazz realized.

:I have been attempting.: Prowl agreed. :I am not very skilled at such things.:

:Wha’ brought this on? Is it b’cause I know yar secret?:

:I find myself drawn to you. You are intelligent and talented. And quite handsome. The fact that you know of my alter ego is only an extra benefit.:

:Ya ain’t so bad yourself.: Jazz admitted.

Prowl smiled. :Rest well. I will see you for our tactical meeting in the morning.:

:Romantic.: Jazz teased.

:Practical.: Prowl countered. :I’m willing to spend any time I can with you, even if it is when we are working.:

Jazz’s spark fluttered just the tiniest bit. :An’ ya think yar not good at flirtin’. A’ight. See you in the mornin’, then.:

Prowl left.

Jazz stood back against the door for a moment with a small smile on his face. Then he went over to his berth and curled up around the youngling, extending his field to cover Bluestreak with a blanket of safety and protection.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoops, looks like Jazz and Prowl both caught some feelings there. ;)


	11. Anger Management

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jazz doesn't take Sharptone's interference well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this chapter, looked at it and then rewrote the whole thing because I didn't like it...

Jazz seethed and ripped into another training drone with a snarl. Several more lay in pieces around the room. He was totally going to get court martialed before serving even one full orn as Gamma Base’s head of Spec Ops. And it was going to happen because he was going to _murder_ Sharptone.

The mech was trying to use Jazz’s new position as a reason to get Blue taken away from him. And he’d tried to be _sneaky_ about it. Instead of lodging his concerns with the mechs in command at his own base, he’d gone over everybot’s helms and contacted Jazz’s Spec Ops superior. 

Blackmirror had sent Jazz a subtle alert when he’d received the complaint from Gamma Base’s Security Director.

Jazz couldn’t act on his knee-jerk reaction to storm into the mech’s office and stab him, so he was back in the training room wrecking his way through training equipment. Jazz was glad Bluestreak couldn’t see him like this.

The youngling was away from Gamma Base having a sleepover with the twins. The sleepover was Prowl-sanctioned, of course. The Praxian had even gone so far as to escort Bluestreak over to Beta Base himself. That had set off the rumor mill; bots speculating about the relationship between the two officers. After all, a Spec Ops commander wouldn’t trust just anybot with his youngling.

Jazz didn’t much care about what others thought. He and Prowl were careful about physical displays of affection in public. And what they did in private was no bot’s business but their own.

“You know you have to fill out paperwork every time you destroy one of those things, don’t you?” Prowl’s voice was dry as he spoke from the direction of the doorway.

Speak of the Unmaker...

“I’m aware.” Jazz snorted. “Bu’ better paperwork ‘bout a drone than paperwork ‘bout a deactivated officer.”

“What is going on?” Prowl asked as he walked fearlessly up to the riled Polyhexian. “I can feel your killing intent even without teeking your field.”

“Sharptone.” Jazz growled, ripping fine circuitry out of the drone sending it crashing to the floor offline. He finally turned to face the other mech fluffing his armor out and then letting it settle. As soon as the destruction stopped, the cleaning drones began to scuttle out of their storage unit and clear away the debris. 

Prowl actually sneered. “What did that idiot do _now_?”

“‘E’s tryin’ t’ get Blue removed from my custody on account o’ my new _occupation_.”

“What.” The question was flat.

Huh. And here he thought Prowl would have already known about Sharptone’s machinations.

“Ya ‘eard me. ‘E sent a complaint t’ my superior at Alpha Base. Fortunately Blackmirror’s a friend. ‘E’s on th’ case righ’ now an all I can do is wait. An’ I don’ take waitin’ real well.” Jazz gestured to the smashed drones.

Prowl frowned. “If Sharptone has any issues with other personnel on the base he is supposed to bring it to my attention.”

Jazz snorted again. “‘E ain’t stupid. We ain’t exactly been subtle.” Jazz gestured nebulously between them in an indication of their relationship. “‘E knows ya’ll take my side.”

“He is stupid if he thinks he can get around my authority. Blackmirror will be contacting me about the complaint because it is under _my_ jurisdiction.”

Prowl’s doorwings twitched in anger, bespeaking the violence he clearly wanted to enact upon the mech who’s interference was bringing undue distress to one of his charges. His optics took on that tell-tale overbright sheen that indicated a code conflict.

Jazz stepped forward, concern overriding his anger for a moment. He gently took Prowl’s helm between his servos. “‘Ey, wha’ got yar wires twisting?”

“Loyalty and protection coding is conflicting. Loyalty to the Autobots, needing to protect you.” He gritted out, leaning into the contact. “Sharptone needs to be… delt with, but I cannot…”

Unsure of how to help Jazz went for a distraction tactic. He kissed Prowl.

Prowl froze, except for a subtle twitch of his doorwings.

Jazz pulled back and put their helm crests together. “Ya know ya don’ ‘ave t’ kill a mech t’ get rid o’ ‘im, righ’? If it were tha’ easy ‘e’d of gone missin’ by now.”

Prowl’s optics flickered for a klik, Jazz could almost see the wheels turning in his helm. Suddenly the Praxian’s armor relaxed from where it had been held tense. A physical cue that the codes were settling down. After a moment he said with a small amount of amusement, “Of course. While less expedient, bureaucracy may be on our side for this. Sharptone has overstepped and he will not get what he wants.”

Prowl’s certainty settled Jazz’s ire. If there was one thing Jazz had learned about the mech, it was just how focused he could be on achieving his goals.

And Prowl’s goal was to protect them.

They stood there for a moment until Jazz began to pull away, but Prowl caught his wrists. He kissed Jazz’s palms, nuzzling into them. He looked at Jazz with darkening optics.

“I suppose we could… distract one another while Bluestreak is in the safe care of Ironhide’s family.”

Jazz’s voice dropped into a husky purr. “Yeah? Wha’d ya ‘ave in mind?”

Prowl pulled Jazz in by his wrists to stand flush against him. Jazz let Prowl drape his arms over the Praxian’s shoulder pauldrons. Jazz gently hooked his digits in the cables at the back of Prowl’s neck as Prowl ran his servos up Jazz’s arms and down his sides.

Jazz leaned forward with a playful smirk and whispered. “Point fo’ me.”

Prowl froze for half a klik, probably feeling the Polyhexian’s clawless digits in his neck cables. Then he chuckled darkly, field flaring with interest and heat.

“Good.”

And quite suddenly Jazz found himself dislodged, grabbed, and pinned to the wall in a processor spinning movement. Jazz willingly went with the motion rather than fight it. A thrill of excitement and danger flipped through his spark.

“Point fo’ ya?” Jazz said breathlessly.

“Point and match.” Prowl growled, swooping in for a kiss before Jazz could make another sardonic remark.

Every time Prowl kissed him, Jazz could practically feel the weight of his attention. Heat licked his circuits as the Praxian unerringly found hot spot after hot spot. Eventually Jazz pushed the other slightly away, panting.

“If we’re gonna continue, then we’re goin’ t’ my quarters.”

Prowl seemed to carefully consider that for a moment. They hadn’t done more than heavy petting up to this point. Prowl cupped Jazz’s chin in his servo.

“I have earned your field. I hope that we might become more intimate. May I share an interface with you?”

It shouldn’t have been seductive at all, but it was said in a warm and deep tone. And it was just so _Prowl_ that Jazz felt his fans kick up a notch.

“Yeah. I think I’d like tha’.”

Prowl gave him another kiss before stepping back. “Then please lead the way.”

The next cycle Jazz was, well, not calm, but calmer. The time spent with Prowl had helped settle him. The interface had helped, too. 

Oh, he was still angry. But he was feeling less homicidal.

He was grabbing a cube in the Ops common room the next cycle when Mirage and Bumblebee came in.

“Hey Boss,” Bee greeted cheerfully. And Jazz was still getting used to being called that.

“Mind telling us why Commander Prowl thought it pertinent to ask us to check on you?” Mirage asked curiously.

Jazz gave them a little half-smile, oddly touched. “‘E’s ‘elpin’ me out with a little personnel problem by th’ des o’ Sharptone.”

Mirage scoffed. “And what is Sharptone’s most recent blunder?”

“Tryin’ t’ get Blue taken from me ‘gain.”

Mirage and Bumblebee exchanged a look.

“So, which smelter are we dumping his frame in?” Bumblebee asked.

“Don’t’cha worry ‘bout it” Jazz said, “Like I said Prowl’s ‘elpin’.”

“You and Prowl are pretty chummy.” Bee observed.

Jazz frowned slightly. “Ya’ll got a problem with tha’?”

“Not at all.” Mirage quickly assured him. “But if he’s going to be around more, then he should get to know the team.”

“Huh.” Jazz mulled that over for a moment. “Ya’re not wrong, I guess.”

“You should tell him to come over for a ‘team building’ session.” Mirage offered nonchalantly.

“Team Building” Sessions were Ops code for a drinking dark-cycle.

“Yeah,” Bumblebee said with a smile, “we haven’t had a session together in a while. And you look like you could use it.”

Jazz hesitated for just a few kliks. If he was any other officer, he wouldn’t have been able to “carouse” with his subordinates, but the Ops agents were a much more tightly knit group. Their very functioning depended on the implicit trust they had in one another.

And they were right. If Prowl was going to be around more, he needed to start building up trust with the other Ops agents.

Jazz sighed, armor relaxing, “Tha’ ain’t a bad idea, my mechs.”

“Excellent.” Mirage smiled. “I have a small amount of rather good Towers spirits in my possession and Bumblebee has some not-as-good contraband moonshine. I’m sure the other agents on base have their own stashes.”

Jazz chuckled “As long as they remember th’ rules.”

The three of them chimed together. “Offer Blue high-grade and you die.”

They chatted for a few more breems, and then Jazz’s comm went off. The ID was Ironhide. He checked his chronometer. It was a little early for them to be here. Ironhide was supposed to drop Bluestreak back at Gamma Base in a few joors.

Unease slid down his spinal strut as he answered the comm.

:’Ey Ironhide, wha’s goin’ on?:

:Jazz,: Ironhide’s voice was bubbling with anger which immediately put Jazz on alert, :come to Beta Base now. The younglin’s have been taken.:


	12. Hunting Party

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jazz wastes no time in organizing his mechling's rescue.

“Bumblebee, Mirage, with me now.” Jazz barked as he made quickly for the door. They could see the sudden shift in his posture and attitude and followed him unquestioningly.

:’Ow long? By whom?: He snapped to Ironhide.

:Breems.: Ironhide responded tightly. :Chromia took ‘em to Crystal Side Park to play. Unmarked transport pulled up fast. Got Chromi’ with a stunner. Bots grabbed Bluestreak, but my bitlets grabbed back, so they took all’a ‘em. Chromi’ said they were babblin’ somethin’ ‘bout “The Chosen of Primus’ resurrection.”:

:Is Chromia still at th’ park?:

:Yeah, an’ ready fo’ a fight.:

:We’ll meet ya there in ten breems.:

Jazz led his agents to his office. He opened a panel in the wall and pulled out two disruptors. As he tossed one to Bee he growled, “Th’ younglin’s got taken from a park.”

Both his agents tensed and then glowered. Bee automatically checked the device and subspaced it.

Jazz checked his own, snapping out another order. “‘Raj, find me everythin’ ‘bout a group centered around “Primus’ resurrection”. ‘Prolly religious extremists.”

Mirage nodded and sat down at Jazz’s terminal. He had the passwords for all but the most deep of the secret ops.

Jazz turned on his heel, subspacing the disruptor. “‘Bee, with me. We’ll track th’ transport they used from the park. Let’s move.”

Without pausing, Jazz put two digits to his audial and activated his comm as they jogged to the lift.

:Prowl. We ‘ave a situation. Bluestreak an’ th’ twins were taken from Crystal Side Park. ‘Raj is gathering intel. Bee an’ I are en route. Can you ‘elp?:

Prowl’s answer was immediate and as cold as deep space, :I will shadow you.:

:Good.:

Bumblebee looked at Jazz curiously, unsure of who he’d just commed.

Jazz answered the look, “I was callin’ in a favor.”

Bumblebee just nodded as the lift reached the ground floor. They transformed as soon as they had stepped out and roared down the hallway and out the doors of the base. 

They screeched into the park a breem before Ironhide and so were already scouring the area. Chromia had cleared a perimeter already, snarling intimidatingly at any bot who came too close. The big red mech pulled up to the scene with another smaller grounder in tow. They both transformed and joined the group.

“Jazz, this is Red Alert. ‘E’s our Security Director at Beta Base and has quick access to the area’s security feeds.”

Jazz nodded sharply, “We’ll take all th’ ‘elp we can get.”

His comm went off with a familiar code. Prowl’s cold, even voice was comforting.

:I am on top of the building to the south of the park. Ready for pursuit.:

Red Alert briskly tapped a small device, turning on a holographic map of the surrounding area. There were several red dots on the map. “Each of these is a traffic cam. I can begin extrapolating their course.”

Something struck Jazz as familiar about the mech as he spoke, but Jazz shunted it to a back processor thread to examine later, not wanting the distraction.

“Start with Invest Street heading east for Primeguard Ave.” Bumblebee said. He was crouched down next to a set of fresh exhaust burns on the edge of the street. “Looks like they burned some metal while getting away.” Bumblebee ran a digit tip over another stain. “Mech-blood. Small injury?”

Chromia gave a razor-edged, proud smile. “Sunny got one of ‘em.”

Red Alert’s optics flickered as he tapped into and followed the traffic cams on his hud in rapid fire.

Jazz’s comm went off again, this time from Mirage.

:Raj, tell me ya’ve got some intel.:

:I do. The Mechhood of the Arisen Primus. As you suspected, they are religious zealots. They apparently think that Primus is to be reborn and walk amongst us in the vessel of ‘One who has suffered ultimate destruction’. Best guess is that they somehow connected Bluestreak to The Survivor.:

Frag. Was that who’d been following them a few deca-cycles ago?

:What about known haunts?:

:Here.: A small databurst accompanied the word.

“Ah, got you.” Red Alert said suddenly.

The holographic map suddenly lit with a green dot. A warehouse just outside the residential area not far from the park. Jazz quickly cross referenced it with the addresses Mirage had given him and smiled grimly.

“Tha’ checks with th’ intel ‘Raj got fo’ me. They’re religious extremists. ‘Prolly think Blue is some sort o’ reincarnation o’ Primus. Thing ‘bout zealots is they can be dangerously unpredictable. Gonna need t’ do this with stealth so they don’ get spooked an’ do somethin’ stupid.”

“You and me, Boss?” Bumblebee asked.

“Jus’ me.” Jazz said with a shake of his helm, “But I need th’ rest o’ ya close enough t’ run in ‘case things go t’ th’ pit.

Chromia looked like she was about to argue; ready to vibrate out of her plating, but Ironhide put a servo on her shoulder. They shared a tense, loaded look. Ironhide turned back to Jazz. “Tell us where ya need us. We don’t want our bitlets t’ come t’ harm.”

Jazz frowned at the map and then pointed to four places on the map each a street away from the warehouse. “Each of you take up these positions. That way if somebot tries to escape or if ya need t’ bust in, ya’ll be close.”

The other three agreed.

“Let’s move.”

:Prowl. Time to hunt.:

Bluestreak, Sideswipe and Sunstreaker were huddled together in a small room. They had been dragged through a huge space filled with other bots looking and pointing at them before being pushed into the smaller room. They’d been kept together because the twins had refused to let go of Bluestreak the entire time and the Praxian youngling had kicked up a huge fuss when somebot tried to separate them. 

An ancient desk was the only furniture in the space. The windows were covered with sheet metal and the door was locked. Sunstreaker and Sideswipe had both tried to break it down. Slamming against it like tiny fury-filled wrecking balls.

They’d stopped and sat down on either side of the Praxian youngling when they’d noticed that he’d started to tremble slightly. They’d wrapped their arms around him, purring their little engines as soothingly as they could.

“Are you scared?” Sideswipe asked.

“No.” Bluestreak whispered. “Carer will find us. And he’ll bring everybot.”

The three of them froze and fell silent as pedesteps came by the door. Sideswipe hugged Bluestreak tighter while Sunstreaker let go and placed himself in front of them, hunched in an aggressive position with little servos curled into claws.

Somebot was talking. A mech snarled. “That little yellow scraplet bit me.”

“I’m not a scraplet, you fragger!” Sunstreaker yelled.

Bluestreak shushed him as the mechs beyond the door muttered to each other.

“We should get those Kaon brats away from the Arisen.”

“Leave them for now. They will be culled later.”

Their words trailed off as they moved away.

“We gotta be quiet,” Blue said urgently. “We gotta be on an Op. Come on, let’s hide so if they come in they can’t find us.”

He crawled under the desk, flattening his doorwings down onto his back. The twins looked at each other and then followed.

“Me and Sunny could take them.” Sideswipe protested quietly.

Bluestreak just shook his helm and peeked out from under the desk, surveying the room. “These are bad bots. If you fight you might get hurt or they might take you away and I don’t want that. We gotta be a team and stick together.”

Just as he’d hoped, there was a vent in the corner of the room. Unfortunately, it was located at the top of the wall in the corner. By maybe… if they could push the desk over… 

He wiggled his digits into a leg seam and retrieved a small multitool.

“Where did you get that?” Sunstreaker asked, helm tilting to one side.

“And what is it?” Sideswipe leaned in curiously.

“It’s a multitool, it’s got a screwdriver. Bumblebee gave it to me. He taught me how to hide it in my frame.” Bluestreak whispered back. “Look, there’s a vent up there. If we could reach it, I could get it open and then we could hide in there and wait for Carer to find us. Do you think you could help me push the desk?”

The twins looked at each other again and then back at Bluestreak, nodding in unison with identical expressions of determination on their faceplates. 

Sideswipe spoke. “Tell us what to do, Blue.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm super amused that the consensus in the comments was that some bots were going immediately to die. And while that's _probably_ true... it'll be in the next chapter. ;)


	13. Rescue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jazz teams up with his Hunter to rescue the younglings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Taking the younglings was a bad move.

Getting into the vent was the easy part. The desk was cheap and easily moved by the three younglings working together. The vent, itself, was similar to the ones on Gamma Base; held in by magnets and simple to pry open once Bluestreak got his screwdriver into a gap.

But once they were in the vent, Bluestreak realized that they couldn’t just stay hidden there. The position of the desk would give away their hiding place. He got the twins to help him pull the vent cover back into place and whispered.

“We gotta move. They’ll know where to look for us when they come back.”

“Where are we going?” Sunstreaker asked.

Bluestreak pointed down the long, cramped corridor of the venting system. “That way. There will be better places to hide and it’ll be harder for them to find us.”

They crawled slowly, doing their best not to make too much noise. As they moved through the small, enclosed space, they became aware of the muffled sound of talking. It got louder and more clear as they came to another vent cover. Bluestreak peeked through the thin grate. He found himself looking out over the big open area. An old mech was standing in front of the rest of the assembled bots in the room. Beside him was some sort of empty tank with a lot of wires coming out of it.

“...can finally celebrate the arrival of our Creator God reincarnated in metal. Now that the Sufferer has been found, we can begin our preparations for the ritual to welcome Him into the world. Praise the Arisen.”

“Praise the Arisen.” The crowd echoed.

“Creepy.” Sideswipe said softly.

The mech at the head of the assembly spread his arms and addressed another bot. “The time has come. Loadout, bring the Sufferer.”

Bluestreak saw the mech walk towards the room they’d been in as rustles and murmurs of excitement rose from the crowd.

The mech came rushing back. “He’s gone! They’re all gone!”

Before he could say anything else the lights in the warehouse cut out, plunging the room into near total darkness since all of the windows were covered. A din of confusion filled the air as the group of bots reacted to the sudden change.

“What’s happening?” Sunstreaker whispered urgently.

A familiar proximity ping lit up on Bluestreak’s rudimentary HUD. A wave of relief washed through his frame.

“Carer’s here.”

When Jazz reached the warehouse, he approached it from the back. Prowl had quickly joined him, appearing like a greyed wraith from around the other side of the building. There were no bots keeping any sort of lookout. It was painfully _civilian_ and that made Jazz angry.

If this little cult hadn’t made the paramount error of taking his mechling, he would have left them for the Iaconi enforcers to deal with.

:You find the younglings.: Prowl ordered. The flat black of the visor and the matte grey blast mask covering his face was still unsettling.

:An’ I s’pose yar gonna take on alla th’ bots in there by yarself?: Jazz replied sarcastically.

:This is the only logical way to proceed.: Prowl said imperiously. :The twins don’t know of my existence. They do know you. And while I know you want your pound of protoform, these are not Decepticons. You would be more than reprimanded for any actions taken against them. I, however, am working under the auspice of the Prime. And he does not take kindly to fringe religious extremists.:

:... I hate it when ya use yar logic against me.:

The Hunter cupped Jazz’s chin briefly. :They will pay for their transgressions.:

A new, but familiar voice broke into the shared comm impatiently. :If you are done arguing logistics, there is an uncovered window on the building’s southeast corner for entry.:

Jazz just stopped himself from jumping out of his plating. :Red Alert? How did ya-?:

Then the pieces fell into place in Jazz’s processor. He could _feel_ Prowl watching him intently even without being able to see his optics. Silence stretched for a moment.

:… Nevermind. Thanks.: Now was not the time to pick apart that little revelation. Best to roll with it and think about it later.

:Of course. Once you are inside I will cut the power. What happens after is out of my servos.:

:Acknowledged.: Prowl said shortly.

They silently opened the window and entered the building. The room they found themselves in was a small storage space, likely forgotten by the warehouse’s current occupants. Jazz flipped his visor to infrared just as the hum of the power cut out. 

_I’m comin’, Blue._ Jazz thought as he sent a location ping to his youngling.

He was unsurprised when Prowl didn’t show up on his sensors, focussed more on the glowing bodies that now lit up his field of vision. He felt the change in pressure as the door opened.

The bots in the larger space outside the storage room were milling about in confusion murmuring nervously. Jazz kept to the wall, slinking around the edges of the room. He scanned the dark space looking for small frames among the many. 

A moment later Jazz spotted a cluster of heat where there shouldn’t have been any. It looked like it was suspended, but the shape of it was blurry as if it was covered by something. Jazz switched to another setting on his visor and released a sharp click. The shape and dimensions of the room lit up on his hud and bounced back to him. 

A small, proud smile curled over his dermas.

Of course. The vents.

One voice rose above the babble of the rest and a pair of headlights flicked on in the darkness. “Worry not, brothers and sisters, I’m sure this is just our Arisen already reaching his power into our world, we will still proceed with the ritual. I ask of you to lend your lights, please.”

More headlights turned on lighting up the leader who’d spoken.

“Thank you, my brothers and sisters. Now, let us bless our Arisen’s creche and then we will retrieve the Sufferer. He could not have gone far. We have found him once, we will find him again. After purification, he will be placed within the Blessed Creche to become the Arisen’s host body. Our new Primus.”

What in the Pit crazy talk was this?

A shadowy, deactivation-grey form appeared behind the leader. The abyssal black visor ate any light from the headlights illuminating them. Two long blades were held out on either side of the mech. 

A voice like liquid nitrogen spoke in the sudden, stunned silence. “If he is your Primus, then I am your Unicron.”

Blades flashed and somebot screamed.

Mech knew how to make an entrance, Jazz thought inanely as he used the resulting chaos to sprint to the location of the younglings. He ripped open the vent cover and immediately ducked to the side to avoid a small fist that tried to punch his olfactory.

“Good instinct, bu’ it’s time t’ go.” Jazz said.

“Carer!” Bluestreak cried joyfully. He leapt out of the vent and magnetized himself to Jazz’s hood.

“Sorry.” Grunted the next mechling who came out of the vent. Jazz couldn’t really see what color he was, but it sounded like Sunstreaker.

“Who _is_ that?” Sideswipe asked next as Jazz pulled him free of the vent. It felt like he was pointing over Jazz’s shoulder.

Jazz chanced a glance in time to see flashes of a blood-bath in the confusing strobes of panicked bots headlights.

_“Nobot.”_ Jazz said sharply. “Turn off yar optics.”

“But-”

“Do as I say!” Jazz grabbed one twin under each arm, ignoring their protests, and moved as fast as he could back to the storage room. One of the cult members was blocking his way, bloodied and wild-looking, breaking Jazz’s stealth by lighting him with flickering headlights.

“You have the Sufferer!” The mech yelled.

Jazz nimbly changed course and headed for a set of stairs that led to a loft of some sort. He clicked again to get the loft’s layout. The space was full of messy berth pads that Jazz quickly picked his way around to avoid getting his pedes tripped up. A few of the cult members had pursued him up the stairs. They weren’t so skilled and ended up tangling their pedes in the unkempt blankets.

Jazz put the twins down in the corner and turned, flipping his daggers out of his vambraces. They both went sailing into cult members’ throat cables. The disruptor came out next. Jazz fired at each of the two mechs left with pin-point accuracy.

Jazz ran a soothing servo down Bluestreak’s flattened doorwings, the mechling still magnetized to his chestplates. Optics obediently off.

“It’s a’ight, Blue, I got’cha.”

He turned back to the corner to check on the twins. Two small sets of curious, eager blue optics stared back at him.

Jazz sighed. “Wha’d I say, huh?”

“Will you teach me how to throw knives like that?” Sideswipe asked excitedly.

“Tha’s a question fo’ yar caretaker.” Jazz deflected.

A high, shrill voice screeched. “You can’t take the Sufferer from us, Unicron-spawn!”

Jazz swiftly turned with the disruptor aimed and ready at the femme coming up the stairs. Before he could fire, a familiar form shot up over the edge of the loft, assisted by the burn of a jet pack. Twin blades flashed and the crazed femme screamed.

“Woah.” Sunstreaker whispered.

:Your path is clear.: Prowl’s voice was eerily calm over the comm. :Go. I will take care of the evidence.:

Jazz nodded unnecessarily. He scooped up the twins again and bolted for the exit. They were silent as he carried them through the main warehouse, the tank-churning smell of mech-blood thick in the air. Jazz made it to the storage room and boosted the twins out of the window one at a time, then climbed out himself. He led them away from the building full of deactivation.

“Ya can’t tell anybot ‘bout wha’ ya saw, understand?” Jazz said.

“Why?” Sunstreaker asked mulishly.

“Who was that?” Sideswipe demanded.

Jazz was gearing up for a fight or tantrum when Bluestreak spoke up for the first time since Jazz had found them.

“He’s my secret guardian Avatar of Primus.” Bluestreak said looking down at the twins from where he was still magnetized to Jazz’s plating. “No bot is supposed to know about him except Jazz and me. So you gotta promise not to tell anybot because then he might have to go away and… and I still need him, okay?”

_Clever little bitlet._

Sunstreaker and Sideswipe shared a look and then looked back at Bluestreak solemnly. They nodded at the same time and chimed together. “We promise.”

“Really, really promise?” Bluestreak stressed.

The two of them shared another look and then made crossing motions over their chestplates.

“Cross our sparks to the Pit,  
a thousand punches if the secret slips.  
Never tell, and if we do,  
deactivation is our due.”

The two of them held their right servos up with the littlest digit extended. Bluestreak leaned over and down with his servo held the same way and caught their digits with his own.

“We won’t tell anybot.” Sideswipe promised again.

“We don’t want him to go away if he keeps you safe.” Sunstreaker added.

Jazz could only hope that the youngling bonds would be enough to keep _them_ safe from the knowledge of the Hunters.

He commed Ironhide, Chromia, Bumblebee and Mirage to let them know that he’d retrieved the younglings.

Behind them, in the distance, smoke began to rise from the building as it caught fire from within.


	14. Home and Trust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reunions and going home.

Jazz met the others a few streets away where they converged. Red Alert and Bumblebee were both on their comms. Ironhide and Chromia were waiting impatiently.

When they caught sight of Jazz and the younglings, the two adoptive creators ran towards them. Sunstreaker and Sideswipe whooped and scrambled to meet them. Chromia grabbed the twins and crushed them into a hug the moment she was close enough to reach them. They made a few mild, unconvincing protests. They were, in fact, hugging her back tightly. Ironhide stood next to them, hovering protectively.

“I bit the slagger than tased you, 'Mia.” Sunstreaker said proudly.

“Good job, bit.” She responded, nuzzling his helmvent. He churred happily.

Sideswipe detached himself from the femme and wrapped his arms around Ironhide’s leg looking up at him with eager optics. “Can Jazz teach me how to throw knives? He was so cool!”

Jazz missed Ironhide’s response because Bluestreak uncurled himself from his position on Jazz’s chestplates as Bumblebee walked over. The minibot had obviously finished his call. He smiled, relieved, when Bluestreak waved to him with a greeting chirp.

“Hey, Blue. I’m glad you’re okay.” Bumblebee said reaching up to briefly clasp servos with the youngling.

“I knew Carer would find me.” Bluestreak replied, doorwings flicking confidently. “And I did what you taught me. I hid in the vents with Sunny and Sides. I got to use my multitool.”

Both Bumblebee and Jazz projected pride through their fields. “Ya did good, bitlet.” Jazz praised. “I can’t wait t’ brag on ya t’ th’ others when we get back.”

Bluestreak smiled and purr-chirped bashfully.

Red Alert also approached, seemingly finished with his comm as well. “I am glad you and Bluestreak are safe.”

Jazz was suddenly reminded of his mid-op revelation. He didn’t let any extra emotion seep into his field. Bluestreak would feel it immediately and he didn’t want to upset the mechling again. So he clamped down on the wariness as he opticked the white and red racer frame from behind his visor.

Red Alert was a mech he knew by reputation only. The Security Director for Beta Base was known for a discriminating optic for detail and a sort of omnipresence at the base as he kept a near constant vigilance with his advanced sensor net.

And apparently, he was another Hunter.

He still wasn’t sure he wanted to think too hard about that yet.

“Thanks fo’ ya ‘elp.” Jazz said carefully.

Red Alert gave him a distant smile. “Of course.” He turned his gaze on Bluestreak. “I am sorry you had to go through such an ordeal.”

Bluestreak tucked himself into Jazz a little shyly. “I’m okay. Carer rescued us.”

“Yes… quite a feat to do all on his own.” Red Alert said archly.

Jazz tensed.

Bumblebee picked up on Jazz's tension and subtly went into a defensive stance, optics trained on Red Alert.

Bluestreak frowned at the mech’s tone, his doorwings swept back indignantly. “Carer is the best. He’s the boss of Ops.”

The white and red mech’s optics warmed slightly. “I see.”

Ironhide spoke up, unintentionally interrupting the stand-off. “Do we need t’ call the Enforcers?” He was opticking the smoke becoming visible over the tops of the nearer buildings.

“There is no need. This is out of their jurisdiction now,” Red Alert said crisply, turning his attention away from Jazz and Bluestreak. “I will take care of it. Please, take the younglings home.”

Normally, Jazz might have protested, but he knew what Red Alert actually meant. This was Hunter jurisdiction now. However they chose to move forward, it was out of his (and the Autobots’) servos.

Chromia stood up with Sunstreaker in her arms, Ironhide swung Sideswipe up into a carry from where he was clinging to the old warrior’s leg. “Thanks, Red.” Chromia said, “We’ll leave it to you.”

Sideswipe and Sunstreaker waved to Bluestreak as their adoptive parents prepared to take them back to Beta Base. The little Praxian waved back, doorwings flapping in tandem. Then he snuggled his helm back down onto Jazz’s chestplates with a contented chirp and said softly,

“Can we go home now?”

Jazz’s spark both warmed and broke a little bit, “‘Course, sweetspark. I think Mirage might jus’ ‘ave an oil cake waitin’ at ‘ome with yar name on it.”

“Really?” Bluestreak’s wings perked up.

Jazz glanced at Bumblebee out of the corner of his visor, saw the tiny nod and sly grin; the minibot already sending off a quick message to the ex-noble.

“Sure bet, bitlit.” Jazz said with an easy grin.

They were met in the Ops wing by Mirage holding a blue oil cake along with all of the agents currently on base. There was no telling how the ex-noble had procured the cake on short notice, but Jazz was happy to let that remain a mystery. Mech was allowed to have some secrets.

The way Bluestreak’s optics lit up when Mirage and the other agents welcomed him back was the best thing Jazz had seen in a long time.

Although, it got better later that evening when Prowl showed up at their hab and Bluestreak contentedly snuggled between him and Jazz on the couch to fall into recharge. Jazz had his arm around Bluestreak’s shoulders and Prowl had his arm around Jazz’s shoulders. The Polyhexian let the stress bleed from his frame and placed his helm on Prowl’s shoulder pauldron.

:Prowl?:

The Praxian barely twitched. :Yes.:

:...situation status?:

Prowl’s arm tightened ever-so-slightly, :Enemies neutralized.:

:What ‘bout ya?: Jazz asked.

:I am unharmed.:

:I meant, did ya get in trouble with yar higher-ups?:

:No. My argument for the attack was deemed logical. I will not face any repercussions.:

Jazz felt both relieved and uneasy at that. Yes, he’d been glad to enact vengeance, but they had been civilians. Crazy, cultist civilians, but still civilians.

The fact that the Senate and maybe even the _Prime_ had approved of the deactivation of civilians…

:I’ve upset you?: Prowl asked, feeling the changes in Jazz’s field.

:I’m upset at th’ whole clusterfrag.: Jazz said.

:I understand.:

They sat in silence for a few breems; Jazz mulling over and processing the events that had occurred. One concern nagged at his processor. At length he spoke again.

:...So… Red Alert.:

:...Yes…:

Jazz felt a small chill of apprehension trail down his spinal strut at Prowl’s tone.

The Praxian continued after a moment, :How did you know?:

:His voice.: Jazz answered truthfully. :I have specialized audials. It’s ‘ow I recognized ya, too.:

Prowl’s arm tightened again. :I know I don’t need to tell you to guard that information.:

:Yeah. ‘E ‘elped us b’fore. Ain’t gonna repay ‘im with betrayal.:

A swell of pride suffused Prowl’s field. :He spoke highly of your discretion. He approved of your addition to my cohort.:

:I s’pose I’d be worried if ‘e didn’t.:

It had been a joke, but Prowl’s engine gave a subdued growl. :No other Hunter will touch either of you.:

:Prowl-:

The Praxian turned his helm and kissed one of Jazz’s audial horns. A fierce wave of devotion bloomed through his field. It was strong enough to make Bluestreak twitch in his recharge, though he didn’t wake.

:You and Bluestreak are mine to protect.: Prowl said staunchly.

Jazz turned off his optics, allowing himself to feel safe in his Hunter’s embrace. In his line of work, such islands of sanctuary were precious commodities. :I know… I trust ya.:

Prowl nuzzled him, doorwing flaring up protectively over Jazz’s backplates. :And I, you.:

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have some fluff before we return to the plot. :)


	15. A Time for Change

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sharptone finally makes a (bad) move.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is short, sorry. -.-' It fought me.

A few cycles later, Jazz was commed by Sharptone in the middle of his shift. Right while he was going over a new set of information brought to him from one of his agents, in fact.

:Report to my office in five breems.: Sharptone said imperiously.

:Ya got a reason, Director?: Jazz asked, unimpressed.

:I don’t need to give you a reason. Report, or I will send security to get you.: The mech abruptly cut the comm.

Jazz was far too used to Sharptone’s bluster and superiority complex to do more than huff in annoyance, though a small niggling feeling piped up at the back of his processor. He saved his work and then set his encryptions before he left his office.

As he walked through the base, he checked in with Bumblebee, who was watching Bluestreak for the cycle. He and the youngling were safe in Bee’s hab watching holo-vids. Thus, reassured, Jazz continued to Sharptone’s office.

When he opened the door and entered, he found a smug-looking Sharptone, an unreadable Prowl and a calm-looking Blackmirror.

“Come in, Jazz.” Prowl said. “Sharptone has a personnel complaint to make about you.”

“Does ‘e now?” Jazz responded dryly.

Jazz saw the edge of Blackmirror’s dermas lift for a klik as if suppressing a smirk. Prowl didn’t even twitch except for a small flicker of one doorwing.

“You see?!” Sharpetone exclaimed, turning to Prowl. “He doesn’t respect me at all. He’s irresponsible! He doesn’t deserve to have custody of the youngling.”

Jazz bristled, but Blackmirror gave him a hidden servo signal that kept him where he stood rather than advancing on the other mech.

Prowl looked unimpressed by the security director’s outburst. “In my opinion, respect is something earned, and you seem to have difficulty inspiring it.”

“What?!” Sharptone blustered. “How dare you?”

Prowl continued as if the mech hadn’t spoken. “You do, however, seem to be quite adept at giving out sensitive information to random bots.” The Praxian drew himself up, wings fanning out threateningly.

“What…?” Sharptone said more faintly. “Are you accusing me of something? This meeting was supposed to be his inquest.” He pointed at Jazz.

“Nah, it’s not Jazz’s inquest,” Blackmirror spoke up for the first time since Jazz entered the office, “it’s yours.”

In what could only have been an orchestrated plan, the door to Sharptone’s office opened and a large blue mech entered. 

Sharptone’s mouth dropped open in shock. “Ultra Magnus, sir? What are you doing here?”

Ultra Magnus? As in the head commander of the Autobots just under Sentinel Prime, Ultra Magnus? Jazz opticked the large mech from behind his visor. Yep, that was definitely Ultra Magnus.

“I am here to arrest you, Director Sharptone.” Ultra Magnus said solemnly. 

“It took a bit of time to gather the evidence,” Prowl said, “but you will find it hard to refute. Ultra Magnus certainly did.” He produced a datapad out of his subspace. “We have uncovered seven separate instances of your personal correspondences holding classified Autobot information. Including, but not limited to: troop placements, data about The Survivor, and sensitive details about current special operations missions.”

Sharptone appeared to be poleaxed. “What? That’s not- I would never-”

Blackmirror interrupted the stuttering mech ruthlessly. “You got an agent killed by one, single, sentence, Sharptone. Quote: Maybe now that Redshift is in Kaon for a while, I can get some work done. Unquote.”

“I-I…”

The urge to launch himself at Sharptone returned to Jazz. The slagger was responsible for Redshift’s deactivation. All because he couldn’t hold his fragging glossa.

“Sharptone,” Ultra Magnus said imperiously, “you are hereby removed from your post and under arrest for the spread of classified information which led to the deactivation and injury of multiple Autobots under your command. You will be taken to Alpha Base to await trial.”

Behind Ultra Magnus, several security personnel entered through the still open doorway. The office became overcrowded for just a few kliks as the mechs took hold of the protesting Sharptone. Then they were gone, leaving Prowl, Jazz, Blackmirror, and Ultra Magnus.

“Thank you for your quick work, agent, and for coming on such short notice, sir.” Prowl nodded to Blackmirror and then Ultra Magnus.

Blackmirror shrugged. “Mechs like that need to be taken out of the ranks as soon as possible.”

“I only wish we had found out his transgressions sooner.” Ultra Magnus said regretfully. He turned to Jazz. “I am very sorry for your loss. Redshift and I trained together for a time. She was a good bot.”

“She was.” Jazz agreed, unsure of what else to say.

“I also apologize for leaving in the midst of the coming upheaval, but I must accompany the prisoner.”

Ultra Magnus and Blackmirror nodded to the two of them and then left the office.

“Uh… upheaval?” Jazz asked curiously, once he and Prowl were alone. He had a slight feeling of dread.

Prowl sighed. “Sharptone let enough information slip in his correspondences that the high command considers Gamma Base compromised. All inhabitants are to be transferred to other bases.”

Now Jazz _really_ wished he’d throttled that slagger before he’d been led away. 

“My agents are gettin’ split up?” He asked, not quite able to hide his anxiety.

Prowl’s doorwings lowered. “Not all of you, but it’s too much of a risk to send you all to the same location. I will be sending out everyone’s transfer orders in the next joor… I am sorry, Jazz.”

“This blows fraggin’ exhaust.” Jazz muttered.

“It does.” Prowl agreed. He stepped closer, pulling Jazz into an embrace. He lowered his voice and murmured into Jazz’s audial. “I’ve done what I can to keep your support structure intact.”

He stepped back again. “I’ll let you go address your mechs.”

Jazz knew Prowl was telling him something without saying it, but for the moment he just allowed himself to trust the mech. He nodded and left the office.

He gathered his agents in one of the common rooms with Bluestreak in tow and explained the situation.

As expected, they were _not_ happy. _Especially_ Bluestreak.

But since there was nothing they could really do, (the higher ups had already made their decisions) they spent the next few joors in an impromptu “team building” activity. It mostly consisted of drinking (for the adults), playing games (to cheer up Bluestreak) and planning for the future.

And when the official orders were sent out base-wide and Jazz saw his reassignment, he understood what Prowl had managed to do.

He, Bluestreak, Prowl, Mirage and Bumblebee were all to be relocated to Beta Base together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And a cameo from Ultra Magnus!


	16. New Home, New Faces

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Introductions at Beta Base.

Beta Base was a familiar location to both Jazz and Bluestreak. That was a positive. And it had Ironhide’s family living there already. Another positive. 

That didn’t make moving any less stressful for the Ops mech or the youngling. Bluestreak spent much of the time during the packing and moving process magnetized to Jazz’s back.

He seemed to be in relatively good spirits the cycle they officially moved into Beta Base. They had been given a bigger hab with multiple rooms similar to Ironhide and Chromia’s hab. Jazz was sure that between the two of them, he and Bluestreak would eventually fill the space, but at the moment it seemed very bare. Mirage and Bumblebee’s habs were just down the hall.

Jazz and his agents were being given a few cycles to familiarize themselves with their new surroundings before officially integrating into the Ops division at Beta. Jazz wasn’t too worried despite having never worked with any of these ops agents before, his mechs were nothing if not adaptable.

Red Alert organized a tour for the new mechs when they’d settled a bit. The red and white mech led them through the base with brisk efficiency. 

When they reached the commissary, Red Alert subtly encouraged Jazz who was holding Bluestreak to the front before opening the door. 

The twins stood in the center of the room holding up a servo-painted banner over their helms making a small cacophony when they entered. Bluestreak brightened, doorwings perking up, and asked to be let down. Then he ran over to the twins chattering happily.

“Hi Sunstreaker! Hi Sideswipe! Did you make that yourselves? It’s so pretty! I’m so glad to see you! I didn’t realize your home was so big. Normally we would just come to your hab and I’d never seen the rest of the base, but it’s so much bigger than I realized. How do you find your way around without getting lost?”

Ironhide sidled up to Jazz and said softly under the excited babble of the young Praxian, “We thought a little party would cheer your bitlet up an’ make th’ move a little less stressful.”

Jazz gave the red mech a smile. “Thanks, Ironhide.”

There were others milling around the room watching the interactions of the younglings. Jazz got the feeling from the fond and soft looks, that these were the mechs who would put their sparks on the line for the young bots. Jazz made a couple of mental notes on the bots present.

A pink femme and red and grey minibot were already introducing themselves to Bluestreak. There was a large red mech with the kibble for an emergency vehicle mode speaking with an equally large black mech. One of the bots was a green all terrain spec that Jazz recognized from the files given to him on the ops agents that lived at Beta Base.

Jazz left his adopted creation under the watchful optics of Ironhide and Chromia and drifted over to the tables to start mingling with the others. Mirage and Bumblebee followed Jazz, while Prowl began a discussion with Red Alert.

The Polyhexian slid into a seat at the big roundtable where the green mech was sitting. Mirage followed him, while Bumblebee dimmed one of his optics in a wink and then headed over to the table with the larger mechs to introduce himself.

“Hey there,” Jazz greeted geanially. “Ya’re Hound, righ’?”

The mech smiled back in a warm, friendly manner, matched by his EMF. “That’s me. And you’re Jazz, right?”

“That I am. An’ this is Mirage.”

Hound greeted the other, even going so far as to give a graceful Towers salutation to the ex-noble.

Mirage hid his surprise well, merely remarking, “I was unaware you were affiliated with the Towers.”

Hound chuckled, “If ‘affiliated’ you mean I used to be one of the gardeners, then sure. I’m no noble, just observant.”

Mirage gave him a thoughtful look. “I suppose that’s one of the reasons you’re part of ops here, then.”

“That, a knack for scouting, and a useful sigma.” Hound agreed.

Mirage seemed very intrigued now. Jazz predicted the two of them becoming involved in sigma discussions. Mirage had one of his own, but had met few others who’d been sparked with one.

Jazz leaned his helm on a servo lazily. “So, any base gossip we shoul’ know ‘bout?”

Hound chuckled again, “Well, at the moment, the rumor mill is mostly centered around you guys and what happened at Gamma Base. And a lot of bots are curious about your bitlet, but Ironhide made it pretty clear that if anybot started bothering him or sticking their olfactories where they weren’t supposed to be that they’d have to deal with him.”

Jazz smirked. “‘E’s a good mech.”

He sat back and watched Bluestreak play while listening quietly as Mirage and Hound began to converse.

Prowl came and sat next to him after he finished his conversation with Red Alert, while the red and white mech made his way over to the table where Bumblebee was charming the bigger mechs. Jazz’s interest was peaked when Red Alert slid into the seat next to the large red mech, nearly up against his side. The bigger mech just smiled and adjusted his arm to lay over Red Alert’s shoulders with easy familiarity.

Interesting.

:Red Alert knew ‘bout this lil’ gatherin’, huh?: Jazz asked Prowl over the comm.

:Of course. Most of the bots here know better than to spring surprises on him.:

:So… does his friend know about… him?: The Polyhexian wondered if there was another bot who might share his knowledge of certain mechs’ Hunter status, or, Primus forbid, _another_ Hunter to add to the roster.

:Red Alert has yet to speak of such things with Inferno.: Prowl warned.

:Got’cha.: Jazz acknowledged. A secret to keep, then. Though the way Prowl said it made Jazz think that Red Alert may have been considering telling his… companion(?) eventually.

Prowl moved in Jazz’s periphery, and gently covered Jazz’s servo with his own, which was placed on the table in plain view. The Praxian seemed nonchalant, but Jazz knew those doorwing well enough now to see that he was focusing on Hound intently.

Hound obviously noticed their servos, but said nothing even when Jazz turned his to link his digits with Prowl’s. He even smiled.

“Carer, look! Look what Sunstreaker drew for us! It’s when we escaped the big building.” Bluestreak ran up to Jazz holding up a flimsie excitedly with both servos. “Can I hang it up in my new berthroom?”

Jazz opticked the drawing. A childish, but still pretty good, representation of him was in the center of the page wielding two knives with what was obviously Bluestreak magnetized to his hood holding out a screwdriver. On either side of him was Sunstreaker and Sideswipe in fighting poses. He supposed it was more heroic to the young artist to imagine that rather than having them hanging like felida kittens from under his arms. Which was what actually happened.

The background of the flimsie had been colored in dark greys and black, but in one corner was a small angular smudge of black. Easily missed in the background, but to Jazz’s paranoid sight certainly looked like a black visor watching over the main subjects of the drawing from the darkness.

“Tha’s real nice, Blue. I’m sure we can find a spot fo’ it on th’ wall.” He managed evenly.

Sideswipe yelled from across the room, “Now that you live here, you can totally teach me how to throw knives! Ironhide already said yes!”

Jazz was caught between sighing and laughing. He supposed there were worse things than having more younglings underpede.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Moar fluff!


End file.
